THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


^ 


AN   AUTHOR'S   LOVE 


AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE 


BEING  THE  UNPUBLISHED  LETTERS  OF 
PROSPER  MERIMEE'S  '  INCONNUE' 


ilontfon 

MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

AND    NEW    YORK 
1889 

All  rizhts  reserved 


COPYRIGHT  1889 

BY 

GEORGE  W.  DILLAWAY 


GIFT 


/  ^^9 


PROSPER  M^RIMJ^E  AND  THE 
MNCONNUE' 


A  WRITER  in  the  Quarterly  Review  for  January 
1874  says  : — "No  literary  event  since  the  war 
has  excited  anything  Hke  such  a  sensation  in 
Paris  as  the  publication  of  the  Lettres  d  une 
Inconnue.  Even  politics  became  a  secondary 
consideration  for  the  hour,  and  academicians 
or  deputies  of  opposite  parties  might  be  seen 
eagerly  accosting  each  other  in  the  Chamber  or 
the  street  to  inquire  who  this  fascinating  and 
perplexing  '  unknown '  could  be.  The  state- 
ment in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes  that  she 
was  an  Englishwoman,  moving  in  brilliant 
society,  was  not  supported  by  evidence  ;  and 
M.  Blanchard,  the  painter,  from  whom  the 
publisher  received  the  manuscripts,  died  most 
provokingly  at  the  very  commencement  of  the 
inquiry,  and  made  no  sign.  Some  intimate 
friends  of  M^rim^e,  rendered  incredulous  by 
wounded  self-love  at  not  having  been  admitted 
to   his  confidence..JjMiii*d    that   there  was   no 


iwS27286 


vi  PROSPER  M&RIM&E  AND 

secret  to  tell ;  their  hypothesis  being  that  the 
Iiiconnue  was  a  myth,  and  the  letters  a  romance, 
with  which  some  petty  details  of  actual  life  had 
been  interwoven  to  keep  up  the  mystification. 
But  an  artist  like  Merimee  would  not  have  left 
his  work  in  so  unformed  a  state,  so  defaced  by 
repetitions,  or  with  such  a  want  of  proportion 
between  the  parts.  With  the  evidence  before 
us  as  we  write,  we  incline  to  the  belief  that  the 
lady  was  French  by  birth,  and  during  the  early 
years  of  the  correspondence  in  the  position  of 
dame  de  compagnie^  or  travelling  companion,  to 

a  Madame  M de  B ,  who  passes  in 

the    letters    under     the    pseudonym    of    Lady 

M .      It  appears  from  one  of  them  that  she 

inherited  a  fortune  in  1843  \  ^"<^  she  has  been 
confidently  identified  with  a  respectable  single 
lady  residing  in  Paris,  with  two  nieces,  and  a 
character  for  pedantry  fastened  on  her  (perhaps 
unjustly)  on  the  strength  of  the  Greek  which 
she  learned  from  Merimee. 

"  The  extraordinary  amount  of  interest  taken 
in  her  is  owing  to  something  more  than  the 
Parisian  love  of  scandal,  gossip,  or  mystery. 
Prosper  Merimee  belonged  to  that  brilliant 
generation  of  which  MM.  Thiers  and  Guizot 
are  the  last,  and  he  will  be  remembered  longer 
than  many  of  those  by  whom  he  was  tempor- 
arily outshone.  His  character  was  no  less 
remarkable  than  his  genius,  and  the  strangely- 
contrasted  qualities  that  formed  it  will  be  found 


THE  '  INCONNUE'  vii 

almost  as  well  worth  studying  as  his  works. 
It  was  because  he  was  an  enigma  when  living 
that  people  are  so  eager  to  know  everything 
concerning  him  when  dead.  Was  his  cynicism 
real  or  affected  ?  Had  he,  or  had  he  not,  a 
heart?  Did  he,  or  could  he,  love  anything  or 
anybody  at  any  time  ?  Was  he  a  good  or  bad 
man  ?  a  happy  or  unhappy  one  ?  These  are 
among  the  problems  raised  by  the  Letters^ 

So  much  for  the  Quarterly  Review. 

In  the  Preface  to  the  only  existing  English 
translation  of  Prosper  Merimee's  Lettres  a  tme 
Inconnue,  published  by  Messrs.  Scribner  and  Co. 
in  their  Bric-a-Brac  Series,  and  edited  by  Mr. 
R.  H.  Stoddard,  occurs  this  sentence  : — "  The 
mystery  which  surrounds  these  Letters  to  an 
Incognita^  their  freshness,  their  epigrammatic 
brilliancy,  their  keen  and  flashing  wit,  the  care- 
less boldness  with  which  they  dash  off  the 
portraits  of  the  leading  men  and  women  of  the 
day,  in  English  as  well  as  in  French  society, 
combine  to  draw  attention  first  of  all  to  them, 
and  they  are  therefore  assigned  the  first  place 
in  this  volume." 

Side  by  side  with  this  testimony  from  both 
an  English  and  an  American  source  to  the 
interest  attaching  to  Merimee  himself  and  to 
his  writings,  particularly  to  the  story  of  his  love 
and  friendship  for  the  mysterious  Inconnuey 
may  be  placed  the  following  extracts  from  M. 
Henri  Taine's  "acute  and  discriminating"  study 


viii  PROSPER  MJ^RIMJ^E  AND 

of  his  character  prefixed  to  the  original  edition 
of  the  Lettres  a  une  Inconnue : — 

"  I  have  several  times  met  Merimee  in 
society.  He  was  a  tall,  erect,  pale  man,  who, 
save  for  his  smile,  had  the  coldly  distant  air  of 
an  Englishman  which  checks  beforehand  all 
familiarity.  Only  to  look  at  him  one  felt  that 
he  was  either  naturally  or  from  force  of  habit 
phlegmatic,  and  possessed  of  great  self-control, 
particularly  in  public,  where  his  expression  of 
countenance  was  impassible.  Even  in  private 
life,  when  recounting  some  droll  anecdote,  his 
voice  would  remain  unbroken  and  perfectly 
calm — no  snap  or  enthusiasm.  He  would 
relate  the  raciest  details  in  the  most  pertinent 
terms,  but  with  the  tone  of  a  man  asking  for  a 
cup  of  tea.  Feeling  with  him  was  under  such 
self-control  that  he  appeared  almost  to  be 
without  any,  whereas  he  possessed  an  unusual 
amount,  but  it  was  like  a  thoroughbred  under 
the  complete  command  of  its  master.  The 
training  necessary  to  this  result  began  with 
Merimee  at  an  early  date.  When  only  ten  or 
eleven  years  of  age,  having  committed  some 
slight  fault,  he  was  severely  scolded  and  sent 
from  the  room.  Weeping  and  sorely  distressed, 
he  had  just  closed  the  door  when  he  heard 
laughter,  and  some  one  said,  '  Poor  child,  he 
believed  us  really  angry  ! '  He  was  indignant 
at  the  idea  of  having  been  a  dupe  ;  he  vowed 
never  again   to  exhibit  such  humiliating  sensi- 


THE  *  INCONNUE*  IX 

tiveness,  and  he  kept  his  word.  *  Remember  to 
mistrust '  became  his  motto.  To  guard  against 
expansion,  impulse,  or  enthusiasm ;  never  to 
allow  himself  entirely  full  play  ;  reserving,  as  it 
were,  a  portion  of  himself;  to  be  the  dupe 
neither  of  others  nor  of  himself;  to  act  and 
write  as  though  perpetually  in  the  presence  of 
an  indifferent  and  mocking  spectator,  and  to 
constitute  himself  this  spectator, — these  are  the 
characteristics  which  left  their  impress  deeply 
engraved  upon  every  phase  of  his  life,  his  work, 
and  his  talent. 

"  Mdrimee  existed  as  an  amateur  ;  it  is  im- 
possible for  one  to  do  otherwise  if  possessed  of 
a  critical  disposition  ;  by  dint  of  reversing  the 
tapestry  one  finishes  by  habitually  seeing  the 
wrong  side,  where,  instead  of  fine  personages 
well  grouped,  there  are  only  bits  of  thread. 

"  Early  in  life  Merimee  possessed  a  comfort- 
able competency  ;  then  a  convenient  and  inter- 
esting employment,  the  inspection  of  historical 
monuments  ;  and  later  a  place  in  the  Senate 
and  a  position  at  Court.  He  was  competent, 
active,  and  useful  in  respect  to  the  monuments  ; 
as  a  senator  he  had  the  good  sense  to  be,  as 
a  rule,  absent  or  silent ;  whilst  at  Court  he 
retained  his  independence  and  frankness  of 
speech.  To  travel,  study,  and  observe,  to 
minutely  investigate  men  and  things,  this  was 
his  occupation,  with  which  his  official  duties  in 
no  way  interfered.     A  man  of  such  wit  as  his 


X  PROSPER  MARIMAE  and 

necessarily  makes  himself  respected,  his  irony 
transpiercing  those  encased  in  the  closest 
armour.  He  was  grave,  dignified,  and  of  irre- 
proachable demeanour  when  he  made  an 
academic  visit  or  improvised  a  public  discourse, 
nevertheless  with  it  all  there  was  a  dry  touch 
of  humour  which  turned  both  orator  and 
audience  into  ridicule.  As  candidate  for  the 
Academy  of  Inscriptions,  he  was  taken  to  see 
several  learned  men  of  most  formidable  aspect 
Upon  returning  from  these  visits  he  wrote : — 
'  Have  you  ever  seen  dogs  going  into  the  hole 
of  a  badger?  After  they  have  had  some 
experience,  they  object  to  the  process,  and 
sometimes  come  out  more  quickly  than  they- 
go  in  ;  for  he  is  not  a  pleasant  brute  to  visit, 
your  badger.  I  always  think  of  a  badger  when 
I  ring  at  the  door  of  an  academician,  and  in 
the  mind's  eye  I  see  myself  in  exactly  the  same 
position  as  the  dog.  However,  I  have  not  yet 
been  bitten,  although  I  have  had  some  odd 
encounters.' 

"  Two  distinct  beings  existed  in  Merimee — 
the  one  acquitting  himself  with  perfect  correct- 
ness in  his  necessary  social  duties  ;  the  other 
holding  himself  apart  from  or  above  the  first, 
watching  his  performances  with  a  cynically- 
amused  or  a  resigned  air.  Equally  was  there 
a  dual  spirit  within  him  in  regard  to  affection 
or  sentiment.  The  first,  the  natural  disposition, 
being  good  and  even  tender,  with  no  superior 


THE     INCONNUE'  XI 

in  loyalty,  no  one  more  sure  in  friendship  ; 
when  he  had  once  given  his  hand  he  never 
withdrew  it.  One  sees  this  in  a  striking  degree 
in  his  defence  of  M.  Libri  against  the  judges 
of  the  court  and  public  opinion.  It  was  the 
action  of  a  knight  who  alone  combats  an  army. 
Condemned  to  fine  and  imprisonment,  he 
assumed  none  of  the  airs  of  a  martyr,  but 
showed  as  much  grace  in  submitting  to  his  ill 
fortune  as  he  had  exhibited  bravery  in  pro- 
voking it.  And  he  never  spoke  of  it,  save  in  a 
Preface,  and,  in  a  manner,  as  an  excuse,  explain- 
ing that  in  the  preceding  month  of  July  he  had 
been  obliged  '  to  pass  a  fortnight  in  a  retreat 
where  he  was  in  nowise  inconvenienced  by  the 
sun,  and  where  he  enjoyed  profound  leisure.' 
Nothing  more,  but  it  was  like  the  discreet  and 
fine  smile  of  a  gentleman. 

"  Merimee  never  spoke  of  his  deepest  feelings, 
and  in  the  Letters  we  have  a  correspondence 
first  of  love,  later  of  friendship,  which  lasted 
through  thirty  years,  yet  the  name  of  his  cor- 
respondent remains  unknown.  By  those  who 
read  these  letters  aright  the  man  will  be  found 
to  be  gracious,  affectionate,  delicate,  an  ardent 
lover,  and,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  at  times 
a  poet,  moved  to  the  point  of  being  as  super- 
stitious as  a  lyrical  German.  This  seems  so 
strange  that  one  of  his  letters  to  the  Inconnue 
must  be  cited  in  explanation  : — '  You  had  been 
so  long  without  writing  to  me  that  I  began  to 


xii  PROSPER  M^RIM^E  AND 

be  uneasy,  beside  which  I  was  tormented  with 
an  absurd  idea  of  which  I  have  not  dared  write 
you.  I  was  visiting  the  Arenas  of  Ntmes  with 
the  architect  of  the  department,  when  I  saw  ten 
steps  from  me  a  charming  bird,  a  little  larger 
than  a  titmouse,  the  body  light  gray,  with  wings 
of  red,  black,  and  white.  This  bird  was  perched 
on  a  cornice,  and  it  looked  at  me  fixedly.  I 
interrupted  the  architect  to  ask  him  its  name. 
He  is  a  great  sportsman,  and  he  told  me  that 
he  had  never  seen  any  bird  like  it.  I  went 
nearer,  and  the  creature  did  not  fly  away  until 
I  came  close  enough  to  touch  it ;  then  it  went 
and  perched  at  some  little  distance,  still  looking 
at  me.  Wherever  I  went  it  seemed  to  follow 
me,  for  I  found  it  at  each  story  of  the  amphi- 
theatre. It  had  no  companion,  and  its  flight 
was  noiseless,  like  a  night  bird.  The  following 
day  I  returned  to  the  Arena,  and  I  again  saw 
my  bird.  I  had  brought  some  bread,  which  I 
threw  to  it,  but  it  would  not  eat ;  then  I  ■  threw 
it  a  large  grasshopper,  believing-  from  the  form 
of  its  beak  that  it  would  eat  insects,  but  it 
seemed  that  this  was  not  the  case.  The  most 
learned  ornithologist  of  the  town  told  me  that 
no  bird  of  this  species  existed  in  the  country. 
Finally,  at  the  last  visit  that  I  made  to  the 
place,  there  was  my  bird,  still  following  my 
steps,  and  actually  accompanying  me  into  a 
dark  narrow  corridor,  where  he,  a  day  bird, 
ouo^ht   never   to   have   ventured.      And  then   I 


THE  '  INCONNUE'  Xlll 

remembered  that  the  Duchess  of  Buckingham 
had  seen  her  husband  under  the  form  of  a  bird 
the  day  of  his  assassination,  and  the  idea  came 
to  me  that  you  were  perhaps  dead,  and  that 
you  had  chosen  this  disguise  in  which  to  come 
and  see  me.  In  spite  of  myself  this  betise 
tormented  me,  and  I  assure  you  that  it  has 
enchanted  me  to  find  that  your  letter  bore  the 
date  of  the  day  when  for  the  first  time  I  saw 
my  marvellous  bird.' 

"  This  is  how  the  heart  and  imagination  work 
even  in  a  sceptic  ;  it  is  a  betise,  but  none  the 
less  true  is  it  that  he  was  on  the  threshold  of  the 
dream,  and  entering  on  the  broad  road  of  love. 

"  But  side  by  side  with  the  lover  existed  the 
critic,  and  the  conflict  between  these  two  per- 
sonages in  the  same  man  produced  singular 
effects.  In  the  case  of  a  lover  it  is  perhaps 
better  not  to  see  too  clearly.  *  Do  you  know,' 
said  La  Fontaine,  '  however  slightly  I  love,  I  no 
more  see  the  defects  of  the  loved  ones  than 
does  a  mole  a  hundred  feet  below  the  earth. 
The  moment*  that  I  have  a  grain  of  love  I  do 
not  fail  to  mix  with  it  all  the  incense  in  my 
possession.'  Perhaps  this  explains  why  he  was 
so  amiable.  In  Merimee's  letters  harsh  words 
are  mingled  with  the  tender  ones  : — '  I  confess 
that  you  appeared  to  me  much  improved 
physically,  but  not  at  all  morally  ;  you  retain 
the  figure  of  a  sylph,  and  notwithstanding  that 
I  am  blas^  on  the  subject  of  black  eyes,  I  have 


xiv  PROSPER  M&RIM^E  AND 

never  seen  finer  ones  either  at  Constantinople 
or  Smyrna.  But  now  for  the  reverse  of  the 
medal.  You  have  remained  a  child  in  many 
things,  and  you  have  become  in  the  very  highest 
degree  a  hypocrite.  You  believe  that  you  have 
great  pride ;  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  but  you 
possess  in  reality  only  a  small  vanity  not 
unworthy  a  devote.  Every  one  goes  to  hear 
sermons  at  present ;  do  you  ?  This  would  be 
the  final  touch.'  After  two  months  of  tender- 
ness, of  quarrels,  and  reconciliations,  he  writes 
as  follows  : — *  It  seems  to  me  that  every  day 
you  grow  more  egotistical.  In  the  word  "  we  " 
you  see  only  "  you."  The  more  I  think  of  this, 
the  more  sad  it  seems.  We  are  so  different 
that  we  can  hardly  understand  each  other.'  It 
seems  that  he  had  met  a  character  as  restless, 
as  unyielding,  and  as  independent  as  his  own 
— a  lioness  though  tame — and  he  analyses  it : — 
*  It  is  a  pity  that  we  do  not  see  each  other  the 
day  after  a  quarrel  ;  I  am  convinced  that  we 
should  be  perfectly  amiable  one  for  the  other. 
Certainly  my  greatest  enemy,  or,  if  you  will, 
my  rival  in  your  heart,  is  your  pride  ;  you  revolt 
against  everything  that  irritates  this  pride  ;  you 
follow  your  own  idea  even  to  the  smallest 
details.  Is  it  not  your  pride  that  is  satisfied 
when  I  kiss  your  hand  .^  .  .  .'  After  a  worse 
quarrel  than  usual  he  writes  : — *  You  are  one  of 
these  chilly  women  of  the  North,  you  live  only 
by  the  head.    .    .       Adieu,  since   we  can   only 


THE  '  INCONNUE'  xv 

love  each  other  at  a  distance.  When  we  are 
both  old  perhaps  we  shall  meet  again  with 
pleasure.'  And  then  at  an  affectionate  word 
from  her  he  returns.  But  the  opposition  of 
their  characters  is  always  the  same  throughout ; 
he  cannot  stand  it,  that  a  woman  will  be  a 
woman  : — '  Why,  after  being  for  so  long  all  that 
we  have  been  to  each  other,  must  you  still 
reflect  for  several  days  before  answering  the 
most  simple  question  ?  I  never  know  which 
will  win  the  day,  your  head  or  your  heart ;  you 
do  not  know  yourself,  but  you  always  give  the 
preference  to  your  head.' 

"  All  these  quarrels  finally  end  in  a  true  and 
lasting  friendship,  but  do  you  not  admire  this 
agreeable  manner  of  love-making  ?  They  met 
at  the  Louvre,  at  Versailles,  in  the  surrounding 
forests  ;  took  long  clandestine  tete-a-tete  walks 
together  several  times  a  week,  even  in  January  ; 
he  admired  '  a  radiant  countenance,  a  subtle 
charm,  a  white  hand,  superb  black  hair,'  an 
intelligence  and  attainments  worthy  of  his  own, 
the  graces  of  an  original  beauty,  the  attractions 
of  a  comprehensive  culture,  the  seductions  of  a 
charming  toilette  and  a  finished  coquetry ;  he 
breathed  the  perfume  of  an  education  so  choice 
and  of  a  nature  so  exquisitely  refined  that  they 
epitomised  for  him  a  complete  civilisation  ; 
in  short,  he  was  under  the  spell.  By  turns, 
however,  the  critic  replaced  the  lover.  He 
unravelled  the  meaning  of  a  reply,  of  a  gesture  ; 


xvi  PROSPER  MERIM&E  AND 

he  detached  himself  from  his  love  for  the 
woman  in  order  to  become  the  judge  of  her 
character ;  and  he  wrote  her  sharp  truths  and 
epigrams,  which  she  returned  in  full  the  follow- 
ing day. 

"  Such  was  Mdrimde  in  his  life,  and  such  one 
finds  him  in  his  books.  He  wrote  and  studied 
as  an  amateur,  passing  from  one  subject  to 
another  as  the  fancy  or  occasion  prompted  him, 
without  giving  himself  up  to  any  one  science 
or  any  particular  theory.  This  was  not  for 
want  of  either  application  or  ability ;  on  the 
contrary,  few  men  have  possessed  more  varied 
attainments.  He  possessed  a  natural  talent  for 
languages,  and  was  complete  master  of  several  ; 
and  to  his  knowledge  of  books  he  added  ex- 
tensive learning  respecting  monuments,  under- 
standing not  only  the  effects,  but  also  the 
technicalities  of  architecture.  Born  of  a  family 
of  painters,  he  was  accomplished  as  an  artist  in 
water-colours  ;  and  in  this,  as  in  all  else  that 
he  attempted,  he  went  to  the  bottom  of  things, 
having  a  horror  of  specious  phrases,  and  writing 
of  no  subject  unless  with  certainty  of  detail. 
He  had  travelled  much,  and  carefully  observed 
the  manners  and  customs  of  not  only  good 
company  but  bad.  With  all  these  varied 
acquirements,  joined  to  such  noble  faculties, 
Merimde  might  have  ranked  high  both  in 
history  and  in  art,  but  in  the  former  his  rank 
is   only   an    average   one,   and    in    the    second 


THE  "  INCONNUE'  xvil 

limited.  He  was  distrustful,  and  too  much 
distrust  is  hurtful.  It  seems  that  almost 
always  he  wrote  merely  as  the  occasion 
prompted,  to  occupy  or  amuse  himself,  without 
submitting  himself  to  any  dominating  idea,  or 
conceiving  any  great  harmonious  whole.  In 
this,  as  in  all  else,  he  became  first  disenchanted, 
and  finally  disgusted.  Scepticism  produced 
melancholy,  and  in  this  connection  his  corre- 
spondence is  sad.  His  health  failed  by  degrees, 
and  he  wintered  regularly  at  Cannes,  feeling 
that  life  was  slipping  from  him  ;  but  he  took 
great  care  of  himself,  the  instinct  of  self-preser- 
vation being  the  one  that  remains  with  a  man 
to  the  end.  When  the  railway  brought  him  a 
friend  he  revived,  and  his  conversation  was 
again  charming,  as  his  letters  were  always, 
nothing  being  able  to  impair  his  wit,  which  was 
most  exquisite  and  original.  But  he  could  not 
command  happiness  ;  he  looked  at  the  future 
gloomily,  and  through  fear  of  being  deceived  he 
was  distrustful  in  life,  in  love,  in  science,  and 
in  art,  and  became  himself  the  dupe  of  his 
mistrust." 

Such  are  a  few  of  the  extracts  from  M. 
Taine's  account  of  Prosper  Merim^e  ;  but  that, 
in  spite  of  all  his  doubts  and  cynicism,  the  man 
was  "capable  of  loving  ardently,"  the  famous 
Letters  to  an  Inconnue  prove  beyond  a  doubt ; 
and  they  prove  also  that  a  warm  love  which 
has  at  one  time  been  more  than  mere  Platonic 


xviii  PROSPER  M&RIM&E  AND 

affection  can  resolve  itself  into  a  friendship 
faithful,  tender,  and  loyal  unto  death. 

One  word  more  from  the  Quarterly  Review. 
The  writer  states  that  when  Mdrimee  "  first 
formed  the  acquaintance  of  his  Inconnue  he 
was  thirty-seven  years  of  age,  and  a  recognised 
celebrity,  if  not  quite  in  the  fulness  of  his  fame. 
The  precise  date  is  fixed  by  a  letter  dated 
Paris,  February  1842,  in  which,  apologising  for 
not  sending  her  some  Turkish  slippers,  he  sends 
a  Turkish  looking-glass  instead  : — '  Perhaps  you 
will  like  it  best ;  for  you  strike  me  as  having 
become  still  more  coquette  than  in  the  year  of 
grace  1840.  It  was  in  the  month  of  December, 
and  you  had  on  stockings  of  striped  silk  ;  that 
is  all  I  remember.' 

"  The  first  of  his  letters,  written  in  Paris  and 
received  in  England,  begins  with  a  reproach  : — 
'  I  received  your  letter  in  due  time.  Everything 
about  you  is  mysterious,  and  the  same  causes 
make  you  act  in  a  manner  diametrically  opposed 
to  that  in  which  others  would  conduct  them- 
selves. You  are  going  into  the  country,  good  ; 
that  is  to  say,  you  will  have  plenty  of  time  to 
write,  because  there  the  days  are  long,  and  the 
want  of  something  to  do  is  conducive  to  the 
writing  of  letters.  At  the  same  time  the 
vigilance  and  anxiety  of  your  dragon  being 
less  disturbed  by  the  regular  occupations  of  the 
town,  you  will  have  to  submit  to  more  questions 
when    letters   come   for   you.      Moreover,  in    a 


THE     INCONNUE  Xix 

country-house  the  arrival  of  a  letter  is  an  event. 
Not  at  all,  you  cannot  write,  but  on  the  other 
hand  you  can  receive  no  end  of  letters.  I 
begin  to  adapt  myself  to  your  ways,  and  I  am 
no  longer  surprised  at  anything.  All  the  same, 
pray  spare  me,  and  do  not  put  to  too  severe  a 
proof  this  unfortunate  habit  I  have  acquired,  I 
do  not  know  how,  of  approving  of  all  that 
you  do. 

"  '  I  have  a  remembrance  of  having  been  per- 
haps a  little  too  frank  in  my  last  letter,  when 
speaking  to  you  of  my  character.  Among  my 
friends  there  is  an  old  diplomatist,  a  shrewd 
man  of  the  world,  who  has  often  said  to  me — 
"  Never  speak  ill  of  yourself  Your  friends  are 
safe  to  do  so  for  you."  I  begin  to  fear  that 
you  may  take  literally  all  the  evil  that  I  have 
said  of  myself.  Understand  that  my  great 
virtue  is  modesty  ;  I  carry  it  to  excess,  and  I 
tremble  lest  it  may  prejudice  you  against  me.' " 

The  correspondence  begins  in  this  tone,  but 
all  the  letters  of  Merimee  should  be  read  in 
order  fully  to  appreciate  the  answers  of  the 
Inconnue. 


I 

London,  Tuesday. 

To-morrow  I  leave  for  the  country,  where  I 
shall  have  but  little  time  to  write  ;  on  the  other 
hand,  I  shall  hope  and  expect  to  receive  no 
end  of  letters  from  you.  The  "  dragon  "  goes 
with  me.  I  am  frantically  busy,  yet  find  time 
to  think  of  you.  Is  not  that  gentille  ?  You 
know  the  address,  so  I  shall  look  for  a  letter 
from  you  almost  immediately. — Always  most 
sincerely. 

II 

Sunday. 

Your  diplomatic  friend  was  not  far  wrong, 
mon  cher^  when  he  advised  you  never  to  speak 
ill  of  yourself  because  your  friends  are  safe  to 
do  so  for  you.  In  the  face  of  this  sage  counsel 
why  do  you  tell  me  of  such  a  betise  as  your 
opera  supper  and  your  ball  to  ballet  dancers, 
accentuating  the  dots  over  the  i's  by  treating 
me  to  a  list  of  the  virtues  of  those  same  frail 
fair  ones?  So  you  think  they  compare  well 
with  other  women  save   in  the  one  difference 

5  B 


2  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ill 

of  poverty.  Mes  compliments  upon  your  lady 
acquaintances,  kindly  omit  me  from  the  list. 
Really,  the  by/J  y-ou  rh^htipJ'^  as ;  having  hovered 
over  you  at  midnight  on  the  platform  of  the 
towers  of  Notr^ ,  Darne  failed  signally  in  im- 
parting the  smallest  particle  of  his  traditionary 
wisdom  to  you,  if  you  think  to  win  my  friend- 
ship by  these  frank  declarations  of  a  taste  I 
find  questionable.  I  am  glad  that  you  at  least 
own  to  the  fact  that  those  women  are  stupid. 
You  close  your  letter  with  asking  me  not  to  be 
annoyed  at  the  picture  you  draw  of  yourself, 
but  I  am  distinctly  so. 


Ill 

The  story  you  tell  me  of  the  young  figurante 
who  played  the  parts  of  vultures,  devils,  and 
monkeys,  in  order  to  support  a  dying  mother, 
and  who  lived  a  little  saint  the  while  in  spite 
of  the  temptations  and  surroundings  of  a  theatre, 
is  a  pretty  one  enough,  and  withal  touching,  but 
it  does  not  alter  my  opinion  of  women  of  her 
class,  as  a  class.  And  why,  may  I  ask,  do  you 
begin  your  letter  by  telling  me  that  frankness 
and  truth  are  rarely  good  to  employ  towards 
women,  and  in  a  few  lines  farther  on,  with  more 
frankness  than  politeness,  ask  me  to  tell  you 
whether  the  life  this  same  little  saintly  figurante 
leads  (presumably  when  she  is  not  personating 


rii  PROSPER  M£RIM£E'S  '  INCONNUE  '  3 

monkey  or  devil)  does  not  possess  infinitely 
more  merit  than  my  own  ?  Are  you  bent  upon 
making  me  seriously  angry,  and  is  this  the  style 
in  which  you  propose  to  carry  on  our  corre- 
spondence ?  Do  not,  I  implore  you,  provoke 
me  so  often.  Have  I  not  told  you  that  my 
temper  is  not  a  good  one?  I  think  I  must 
have  been  born  in  an  east  wind,  I  am  so 
frightfully  uncertain.  Just  how  sorry  I  am  for 
your  poor  mother's  illness,  I  can  hardly  find 
words  to  say  ;  I  know  your  tender  love  for  her, 
and  can  well  understand  how  the  anxiety  of 
the  past  week  must  have  tried  you.  Thank 
God  that  the  danger  is  over. 

Your  postscript  is  most  disappointing.  Don't 
tell  me  seriously  that  I  am  not  after  all  to 
have  the  aquarelle  ;  I  have  so  set  my  heart  upon 
it.  Of  course  I  send  you  the  tapestry  all  the 
same,  but  that  does  not  in  the  least  prevent  my 
regretting  the  loss  of  my  share  of  the  compact. 
Why  not  send  the  picture  in  any  case,  and  let 
me  judge  of  its  merit  ? 

You  are  right,  very  right,  in  suggesting  as  a 
rule  for  general  guidance — "  Never  select  a 
woman  for  a  confidante,"  false  as  I  feel  myself 
to  be  towards  my  sex  in  so  cordially  agreeing 
with  you  ;  en  revanche^  however,  I  cannot  agree 
with  you  when  you  assert  that  we  are  in  this 
world  only  to  battle  against  our  kind,  to  spend 
our  lives  in  a  hand-to-hand  fight  with  every- 
thing  and    everybody.       And    I    much    doubt 


4  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  in 

whether  you  believe  it  either ;  your  tone  in 
making  the  statement  is  weak,  and  you  fall 
back  too  quickly  upon  your  friend  and  his 
supporting  Egyptian  hieroglyphics.  Havej^z/, 
par  exentphy  found  life  all  war,  women  all  false  ? 
J' en  doute. 

One  of  my  relations  tells  me  that  he  has 
heard  much  of  you,  and  that  you  are  not  all 
good,  that  your  books,  for  instance,  are  decidedly 
bad.  Is  this  true  ?  Never  try  to  deceive  me. 
I  would  rather  have  truth  at  any  price,  even 
should  it  beggar  my  whole  life  until  the  end. 
Do  you,  I  wonder,  understand  me,  or  shall  I 
give  you  a  little  sketch  of  what  I  think  I  am 
for  your  future  guidance?  Suppose  I  try.  I 
am  very  truthful,  that  first  and  foremost ;  loyal 
to  a  fault,  with  no  half-hearted  friendship  de- 
pending upon  the  varying  opinions  of  others, 
and  changing  with  them.  Not  jealous,  for  I 
have  too  proud  a  confidence  where  I  love,  and 
were  the  confidence  destroyed  it  would  kill  the 
love.  Between  these  two  estates  there  is  too 
barren  a  soil  for  jealousy  to  grow  in.  You 
will  probably  smile  at  this,  and  call  it  over- 
boastful,  or  very  crude.  If  so,  do  not  tell  me 
that  you  have  done  so.  Ah,  there  comes  a 
weak  spot  in  the  sketch — the  things  I  cannot 
bear  to  hear.  On  second  thoughts  I  will  leave 
the  picture  unfinished. 


IV  PROSPER  MArIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  5 

IV 

Wednesday. 

I  am  glad  that  you  liked  the  portrait  which 
I  drew  of  myself,  and  did  not  find  it  too  flatter- 
ing, but  would  it  not  be  wiser  to  wait  and  see 
it  completed  before  pronouncing  judgment  ? 
It  is  a  heavenly  day,  so  clear  that  God's  own 
truth  seems  to  pierce  the  skies  above,  descending 
in  shafts  of  light  and  giving  to  mortals  a  clearer 
insight  into  people  and  things  around  them, 
hence  my  fear  that  your  opinion  of  me  may  be 
over-good. 

Little  can  you  imagine  the  storm  of  indig- 
nation you  aroused  in  me  by  your  remark  that 
your  feelings  for  me  were  those  suitable  for  a 
fourteen-year-old-niece.  Merci.  Anything  less 
like  a  respectable  uncle  than  yourself  I  cannot 
well  imagine.  The  role  would  never  suit  you, 
believe  me,  so  do  not  try  it. 

Now  in  return  for  your  story  of  the  phleg- 
matic musical  animal  who  called  forth  such 
stormy  devotion  in  a  female  breast,  and  who, 
himself  cold  and  indifferent,  was  loved  to  the 
extent  of  a  watery  grave  being  sought  by  his 
innamorata  as  solace  for  his  indifference,  let  me 
ask  the  question  why  the  women  who  torment 
men  with  their  uncertain  tempers,  drive  them 
wild  with  jealousy,  laugh  contemptuously  at 
their  humble  entreaties,  and  fling  their  money 
to  the  winds,  have  twice  the  hold  upon  their 


6  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  V 

affections  that  the  patient,  long-suffering,  do- 
mestic, frugal  Griseldas  have,  whose  existences 
are  one  long  penance  of  unsuccessful  efforts  to 
please  ?  Answer  this  comprehensively,  and  you 
will  have  solved  a  riddle  which  has  puzzled 
women  since  Eve  asked  questions  in  Paradise. 

The  subject  interests  me  doubly  at  this 
moment,  for  my  love  is  promised  ;  I  am  engaged. 
As  an  "  uncle  "  you  will,  I  hope,  feel  duly  in- 
terested in  the  news,  perhaps,  even  spare  time 
from  your  many  grown-up  friends  in  Paris, 
those  who  have  passed  the  infantile  age  of 
fourteen,  and  send  me  your  good  wishes.  As 
things  now  are  perhaps  it  will  be  wiser  not  to 
send  the  aquarelle. 


V 

15///  September. 

Is  it  convenable  to  begin  your  letter  as  you 
do,  to  address  me  as  " Mariqtnta  de  mi  Alma'' 
just  after  I  tell  you  that  I  am  engaged,  that  I 
have  made  my  choice  for  life,  that  I  have  given 
my  love  to  some  one  else  ?  Why  will  you  not 
take  me  seriously  ?  I  find  the  matter  serious 
enough,  heaven  knows  ;  in  fact  rather  too  solemn 
to  suit  me. 

Oh,  why  do  you  write  as  you  do  when  you 
must  know  that  I  am  unhappy,  wretched  ?  Yes, 
I  expect  to  be  in  Paris  in  October,  but  for  many 
reasons  it  will  be  better  not  to  see  you  when 


V  PROSPER  M&RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  7 

there.  Go  to  your  fat  Flemish  women  ;  their 
only  recommendation  to  me  is  that  they  are  on 
canvas,  and  not  in  the  flesh !  Make  no  sacri- 
fices for  me  by  remaining  in  Paris  instead  of 
going  to  Antwerp,  it  will  be  time  doubly  lost, 
for  you  will  lose  the  sight  of  your  pictures  and 
not  be  blessed  with  a  glimpse  of  me.  I  am 
quite  decided  that  it  will  be  better  not  to  meet. 
But  send  me  the  aquarelle  by  all  means.  I  have 
changed  my  mind  as  to  that,  and  can  see  no 
good  reason  why  I  should  not  have  it.  So 
you  have  decided  that  it  is  to  be  the  monk 
after  all,  not  Valasque's  infant  Marguerite.  In 
what  way  did  you  spoil  the  copy  of  this  latter  ? 
I  am  grasping,  I  should  have  liked  both. 

The  idea  of  seeing  you  in  October  tempts 
me  strongly,  but  there  are  grave  reasons  why  I 
should  not  do  so.  No,  my  time  then  will  all 
be  taken  up  in  getting  my  trousseau  ;  you  know 
there  is  nothing  on  earth  women  love  so  much 
as  shopping. 

How  I  wish  this  horrible  rain  would  stop. 
It  is  getting  on  my  nerves,  I  seem  to  feel  each 
drop  on  my  heart,  and  I  am  sure  a  deep  in- 
denture of  some  kind  will  be  worn  into  that 
sensitive  organ.  But  rain  indentures  would  at 
least  be  clean,  that  is  some  comfort ;  and  they 
cannot  leave  any  ache  behind  them,  poor  little 
harmless  washed-out  things. 

I  have  a  surprise  in  store  for  you,  that  is, 
unless    between    now  and    October    I    do   not 


8  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  V 

change  my  mind  and  decide  not  to  tell  you  of 
it.  You  may  judge  from  that  last  sentence 
that  I  have  changed  my  mind  upon  another 
subject,  and  intend  after  all  to  see  you  ;  but  you 
are  mistaken,  it  was  a  mere  slip  of  the  pen.  I 
am  convinced  that  it  would  be  so  infinitely 
wiser  for  us  not  to  meet. 

It  is  Sunday,  and  the  church  bells  at  this 
moment  are  ringing  loudly,  and  horribly  out  of 
tune.  They  too,  like  the  rain,  would  get  upon 
my  nerves  if  their  hideous  discord  lasted  much 
longer.  I  will  go  to  church,  and  see  if  the 
services  can  exorcise  the  demon  of  unrest  which 
seems  to  possess  me.  Thank  God  mon  fittur 
is  not  here  ;  he  left  for  London  yesterday.  But 
I  forget,  you  take  no  interest  in  him,  in  which 
you  are  wrong,  for  he  is  a  most  estimable 
young  man.  Would  I  marry  him  if  he  were 
not?  In  no  way  can  I  agree  with  you  that 
the  fact  of  being  bound  is  of  itself  sufficient  to 
preclude  the  possibility  of  true  love.  The  idea 
is  a  horrible  one,  and  if  accepted  would  destroy 
all  the  moral  foundations  of  society.  As  to 
your  further  suggestion  that  being  bound  to 
some  one  else  would  almost  inevitably  have 
the  result  of  making  me  care  for  you,  I  treat 
it  with  the  scorn  which  it  deserves.  Adieu. 
Enjoy  Amsterdam  ;  worship  at  the  shrine  of 
Rubens,  and  try  in  Antwerp  Cathedral  to  gain 
a  few  Christian  ideas  as  well  as  suggestions  of 
colour  and  flesh  tints. — Your  friend  always. 


VI  PROSPER  M&  RIM  RE'S  '  INCONNUE 


VI 

30/y^  September. 

"  Love  excuses  all,  but  we  must  be  quite  sure 
that  it  is  love."  These  words  of  your  letter  are, 
I  think,  the  saddest  you  ever  wrote,  the  saddest 
any  one  could  write.  What  infinite  possibili- 
ties they  suggest,  what  boundless  sorrow,  when 
the  awakening  shall  come  and  one  discovers 
the  paltry  imitations  which  one  has  mistaken 
for  the  original,  the  base  coin  believed  to  be 
sterling  gold.  How  can  one  ever  be  sure  of 
finding  real  love  when  the  devil  himself  has  not 
half  the  disguises  love  can  assume  at  command, 
and  Satan's  imagination,  lively  as  it  is,  grows 
absolutely  uninventive  in  comparison  with 
Cupid's  ?  And  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  may  not 
too  much  caution  lose  one  the  best  thing  life 
can  give,  leaving  in  exchange  regret  and  re- 
morse as  one's  twin  companions  to  the 
grave  ? 

Oh,  how  sad  you  have  made  me  !  There  is 
not  enough  backbone,  moral  or  physical,  in  my 
whole  nature  to  throw  off  the  load  of  sadness 
which  you  have  with  those  few  words  laid 
upon  it. 

You  tell  me  that  you  too  are  triste,  and 
moreover  ill,  and  that  adds  to  my  own  depres- 
sion. I  am  glad  that  we  are  returning  to 
London  to-morrow  ;  any  change  is  welcome  to 
me  when   one's   mind  is  at  a  palsied  standstill 


lo  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  vi 

such  as  mine  has  reached,  even  a  fog  instead 
of  sunshine,  or  muddy  pavements  in  place  of 
grassy  fields. 

And  so  you  have  determined  to  stop  on  in 
Paris  in  spite  of  my  repeated  assurances  that  I 
will  not  meet  you  there.  You  say  you  will  see 
me,  or  not  see  me,  as  I  may  choose,  but  believe 
me  when  I  tell  you  I  have  already  chosen,  and 
firmly  decided,  that  it  is  best  not  to  see  you. 
Why  shall  I  not  confess  the  truth  once  and  for 
ever?  I  am  afraid  of  you.  There,  are  you 
satisfied  ?  Is  your  vanity  preening  its  feathers 
like  a  peacock  in  the  sun  ?  Does  a  soothing 
satisfaction  flow  through  your  veins  and  bring 
a  placid  expression  to  your  features  ?  All  this 
ought  by  rights  to  be  the  result  of  my  candid 
confession,  and  I  make  no  doubt  it  is.  Well, 
much  good  may  it  do  you.  To  me  it  proves  the 
fact  that  I  am  above  all  things  magnanimous. 
I  return  you  good  for  evil,  in  giving  you 
pleasure  in  exchange  for  the  unutterable  sad- 
ness which  you  have  given  to  me.  It  grows 
and  deepens  as  I  write,  this  dreary  sadness,  it 
hurts  me  almost  to  tears.  "  Love  excuses  all, 
but  we  must  be  quite  sure  that  it  is  love." 
Ah,  how  could  you  write  such  words,  or  how, 
once  written,  could  you  have  the  heart  to  send 
them  to  me,  weighted  as  they  are  with  the 
demons  of  doubt  and  mistrust,  with  fear,  sorrow, 
unrest,  agony,  despair,  temptation  !  Ay,  there 
comes   the    sting,  they  tempt   me.      And    you 


Yii  PROSPER  MiRIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE'  ii 

send  them  to  represent  yourself,  the  tempter ! 
How  dare  you  ? 

See  you  in  Paris — no,  never.  Promise  me 
to  burn  all  the  letters  I  have  written  to  you,  I 
wish  it. 

I  must  make  still  another  confession  to  you. 
I   have  bearded  the  lion  in  his  den,  gone    in 

person  to  see  M.  V ,  and  persuaded  him 

to  write  to  you.  It  needed  some  courage  to 
do  this,  as  you  can  imagine,  but  what  I  have 
still  to  tell  needs  more. 

But  it  is  best  to  be  frank  about  it  and 
confess  the  truth.  I  read  the  letter  which  he 
entrusted  me  with  for  you.  Are  you  very  angry? 
Do  you  find  me  beneath  contempt,  or  will  you 
forgive  me  ?  With  this  mortifying  statement, 
which  conscience  compels  me  to  make,  I  think 
I  had  better  close.  If  you  are  unforgiving  this 
shall  be  my  last  letter. 

If  you  like  I  will  send  you  a  "  schizzo^ 


VII 

London,  3*^  October. 

Your  long  silence  had  almost  convinced  me 
that   being  unable   to  pardon   my  indiscretion 

in    reference    to    M.  V 's    letter,  you    had 

determined  to  let  my  last  epistle  remain  the 
last,  as  I  had  hinted.  Judge  of  my  delight, 
therefore,  when  this  morning  as  I  was  going  for 
a  melancholy  walk  in  a  still  more  melancholy 


12  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  Vli 

drizzle,  the  postman  and  I  met  face  to  face 
on  the  doorstep,  and  in  a  moment  the  dear 
familiar  handwriting  greeted  my  eyes.  With 
what  eagerness  did  I  break  the  seal,  tear  open 
the  envelope,  and  seek  the  first  words  ;  and 
how  thankful,  how  grateful,  was  I  to  your 
forgiving  heart  in  that  you  had  made  them 
what  they  are.  It  shows  how  anxiously  guilty 
I  had  been,  that  the  proportionate  relief  should 
be  so  great.  You  say  that  you  want  ^^  un 
ami  fhnininr  In  consequence  of  the  curious 
construction  of  your  language  I  cannot  translate 
that  sentence  into  English,  we  having  but  one 
gender  for  the  word  friend.  I  wonder  the 
French  who  are  so  clever  in  most  things  did 
not  manage  a  little  more  cleverly  in  this.  Is 
it  not  awkward  sometimes  to  speak  of  "//;/^ 
aniie "  when  from  obvious  reasons  "  tin  ami " 
would  suit  one's  purpose  infinitely  better  ? 
"  Un  ami  feminin"  although  rather  a  contradic- 
tion of  terms,  has  the  merit  of  originality,  and 
I  adore  originality.  Further,  I  am  immensely 
flattered  that  you  think  I  could  fill  this  want 
and  become  this  original  sexless  thing.  Done, 
I  accept.  I  will  be  your  ^^  ami  feminin!'  The 
position  solves  so  many  difficulties,  and  you 
promise  so  energetically  never  to  fall  in  love 
with  me,  that  there  can  be  no  danger.  I 
believe  you  would  make  a  friend  worth  having, 
that  you  would  be  loyal  as  you  are  noble,  and, 
best  of  all,  be  uninfluenced   by  others.      It  will 


Yii  PROSPER  MARIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'  13 

be  good  to  have  such  a  friend,  and  I  promise 
to  be  faithful  in  return.  How  a  few  words 
can  change  the  face  of  nature.  Since  reading 
your  letter  the  melancholy  mist  itself  seems 
almost  cheerful,  so  much  sunshine  is  in  my 
heart  I  do  not  feel  the  want  of  it  in  the 
outside  world.  I  walked  through  the  damp 
streets  feeling  so  light  and  springy  that  it  was 
with  difficulty  I  kept  my  feet  upon  the  ground. 
(Will  that  sentence  convey  the  slightest  idea 
to  your  mind  of  what  I  really  mean  ?)  The 
two  or  three  friends  I  met  must  have  thought 
me  rather  mad,  for  I  answered  their  questions  at 
random,  thinking  the  while  of  your  proposition, 
^^  tin  ami  femininr  I  to  be  that  to  you  I  It 
means  so  much — I  wonder  if  to  you  it  means 
just  the  same  that  I  imagine  it  to  be?  We 
must  talk  it  over,  for  now  I  think  we  might 
meet.  I  really  think  so  ;  there  would  be  no 
danger.  With  your  absurd  reasons  for  the 
fact  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  fall 
in  love  with  you  I  do  not  agree  at  all,  they 
are  unworthy  of  you,  and  I  shall  not  discuss 
them.  Why  do  you  so  malign  yourself?  I 
being  your  friend  now  can  ask  such  questions. 
I  like  it,  this  appointment  of  "  ami  f^minin  "  ; 
nothing  has  ever  happened  to  me  in  my  life 
which  has  pleased  me  more,  perhaps  not  so  much. 
Any  woman  can  be  a  wife,  or  tme  maitresse, 
according  to  her  views  upon  such  subjects,  but 
so  few  can  be  a  true  friend.      Will  you  think 


14  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  viri 

me  boastful  if  I  say  that  I  believe  I  possess 
many  of  the  qualities  which  go  to  make  a 
real  friend  ?  Not  the  weak,  pulseless,  forceless 
thing  which  so  often  usurps  the  name,  but  an 
honest,  loyal,  helpful  soul,  that  lives  and  feels 
and  suffers  and  dares,  yet  does  not  change  ; 
steadfast  amid  good  report  and  evil  report ; 
true  in  word  and  in  deed  ;  tender  in  weakness, 
and  generous  in  pain.  Tell  me,  is  my  idea 
yours  ? 

Yes,  I  pity  you  (as  your  friend)  for  the 
milk  raisons  which  you  tell  me  make  you  sad. 
Let  me  share  them  with  you,  and  divide  their 
heavy  weight.  What  is  a  friend  good  for 
unless  for  this  ? —  Voire  ami  f^minin. 

P.S. — Do  you  know  I  have  been  quite  ill  ? 


VIII 

Friday. 

Amigo  de  mi  Alma — Your  last  letter  ought 
by  rights  to  have  made  me  very  angry,  for  in 
it  you  take  not  the  slightest  notice  of  my 
consent  to  become  your  friend  ;  you  tell  me  as 
though    it    were    something   new   to   you    that 

Lady  M has  told  you  of  my  approaching 

marriage,  say  that  in  consequence  of  this  you 
will  burn  my  letters,  ask  me  to  do  the  same 
with  yours,  and  bid  me  an  eternal  adieu.  Of 
what  can  you  be  thinking?  Did  I  not  tell 
you  frankly  of  my  engagement,  and  was  it  not 


VIII  rROSPER  MARIMRE'S  " INCONNUE'  15 

after  that  announcement  that  I  promised  to  be 
your  friend  ?  Have  you  never  received  that 
letter,  and  is  that  perhaps  the  explanation  of 
the  curiously  abrupt  reticent  production  which 
has  just  been  handed  to  me  purporting  to  be 
from  you  ?  I  confess  to  being  sorely  puzzled. 
The  "  schizzo "  is  ready,  and   I   would  forward 

it  to  Pall   Mall,  to  M.  V 's    care,   only   I 

much  fear  that  curiosity  may  tempt  him  to 
examine  it,  which  I  should  not  like.  Advise 
me  what  to  do  about  it.  I  will  at  once  send 
to  him  for  the  picture  you  mention. 

Do  you  know,  I  pity  you,  for  your  letter 
leads  me  to  believe  that  you  are  either  suffering 
and  ill,  or  else  diabolically  cross.  Either  state 
is  bad  enough  for  the  person  most  concerned, 
but  I  think  the  latter  is  worse  in  its  conse- 
quences to  others.  And  I  pity  myself,  for  you 
have  made  me  cross,  and  worst  of  all  do  I  pity 
the  unfortunate  man  who  is  to  marry  me. 
Dieul  his  lot  will,  I  much  fear,  not  be  an 
enviable  one.  Women  of  my  nature  ought  not 
to  marry;  it  is  a  mistake.  I  wonder  why  I 
do  it? 

I  had  meant  not  to  allude  to  the  ridiculous 
story  of  a  diamond,  the  "  false  stone "  with 
which  you  fill  your  letter.  No  more  than 
yourself  do  I  understand  why  you  should  take 
the  trouble  of  telling  me  this  story,  nor  why 
you  should  go  out  of  your  way  to  veil  the 
identity  of  a  woman  (for  of  course  the  "  false 


(6  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  x 

diamond  "  was  a  woman)  under  such  a  trans- 
parent allegory.  One  thing  which  you  tell  me 
I  can  quite  believe,  namely,  that  the  figure  of 
rhetoric,  called  irony,  is  entirely  under  your 
control.  I  beg  that  you  will  never  try  its 
effect  upon  me.  Why  should  we  quarrel  as  we 
do  ?  Treve  d'hostiliUs,  let  us  be  really  friends, 
it  is  much  simpler,  so  restful  where  everything 
seems  uncertain.  Do  you  remember  once 
asking  me  a  question  to  which  I  would  give 
no  answer?  Well,  let  it  remain  unanswered, 
^jiais MariQUITA. 


IX 

London,  Thursday. 

Impossible  to  write  anything  worth  reading 
to-day,  for  I  am  ill,  and  in  consequence  blue 
devils  are  rampant.  I  think  it  is  partly  this 
suicidal  fog  which  has  upset  me  ;  certainly  this 
is  not  a  cheery  place  in  November.  -  I  am 
going  to  have  my  portrait  painted  for  you,  and 
will  not  forget  your  suggestion  that  when  it  is 
being  done  I  shall  think  of  you  as  Amigo  de 
mi  Alma, 

X 

<^th  November. 

Yes,  I  am  much  better ;  many  thanks  for 
your  sympathy.  You  say  that  I  have  no  heart ; 
mafoi^  I  believe  you  are  about  right !      I  begin 


XI  PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  17 

to  believe  also  that  one  gets  along  tolerably 
well  with  whatever  may  take  the  place  of  that 
portion  of  one's  being  when  the  rightful  tenant 
vacates.  You  see,  mon  beau  moquer^  your  teach- 
ings are  not  all  thrown  away  upon  me.  I  do 
retain  a  little  of  the  much  wisdom  lying  in  your 
cynical  reflections,  and  in  course  of  time  you 
may  actually  be  proud  of  your  pupil. 

My  portrait  is  not  bad,  now  that  it  is  finished. 

Shall   I   send  it  to  you  care  of  M.  V ,  or 

forward  it  direct  to  Paris  ? 

Why  will  you  harp  on  the  story  of  your 
diamond  ?  What  do  I  care  whether  she  be 
false  or  true !  Pour  a  little  acid  over  her  and 
find  out ;  if  she  stands  the  test,  good  ;  if  not, 
and  she  should  shrivel  up  and  disappear,  why, 
better  still.     You  see  she  bores  me.      Adieu. 


XI 

November. 

Are  you  equal  to  a  long  long  letter  from  me 
to-day,  dear  friend  ;  shall  you  be  able  to  stand 
pages  of  all  sorts  of  fears  and  imaginings,  a 
full  soul-communion  of  my  heart  with  yours  ? 
I  acknowledge  the  justice  of  your  reproaches, 
and  feel  that  my  letters  lately  have  been  short 
and  doubtless  unsatisfactory.  You  accuse  me 
of  being  unable  to  say,  '' fai  tort" — but  there 
you  are  wrong.  Not  only  can  I  confess  frankly 
that  I  am  mistaken,  but  I  can  add  the  words 
C 


i8  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xi 

which  to  many  people  are  harder  still  to  say — 
I  am  sorry.  I  would  not  give  much  for  either 
a  man  or  woman  who  could  not,  for  there 
would  unquestionably  be  something  very  wrong 
about  them.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  common 
sense  in  some  of  the  old  saws,  such  as,  "  Honest 
confession  is  good  for  the  soul,"  and  "  Peccato 
confessato  e  mezzo  perdo7tato"  and  half  a  dozen 
more  in  as  many  different  languages.  There 
is  something  very  real  and  soothing  in  that  odd 
warm  glow  which  comes  to  one's  heart  in  gentle 
swelling  waves  of  feeling  after  the  fault  has 
been  confessed,  or  the  misunderstanding  cleared 
away,  and  the  kiss  of  perfect  pardon  and  glad 
comprehensiveness  has  consecrated  and  sealed 
anew  the  friendship  or  the  love.  He  who  has 
never  felt  this  weight  of  doubt  or  vexation  lifted, 
and  the  warm  trustful  belief  born  again  all  fresh 
and  holy,  has  missed  one  of  the  purest  joys  to 
be  tasted  upon  earth.  I  pity  those  who  can- 
not say  frankly  and  freely  "  I  am  sorry,"  for 
the  three  small  words  possess  a  mighty  magic 
for  softening  angry  suspicion,  and  healing  sore 
and  wounded  feelings  where  grander  phrases 
would  be  powerless.  But  why  should  all  natures 
be  alike?  It  would  make  the  old  saws  useless 
if  they  were,  and  deprive  us  of  one  of  the  truest 
of  them  all,  "  Variety  is  the  spice  of  life." 
How  terribly  monotonous  it  would  be  if  all  the 
flowers  were  roses,  every  woman  a  queen,  and 
each  man  a  philosopher.      My  private  opinion 


XI  PROSPER  MJ&RIM^E'S  'iNCONNUE  '  19 

is  that  it  takes  at  least  six  men  such  as  one 
meets  every  day  to  make  one  really  valuable 
one.  I  like  so  many  men  for  one  particular 
quality  which  they  may  possess,  and  so  few 
men  for  all.  Comprenez-vous  ?  Shall  I  ever 
understand  all  your  characteristics,  I  wonder, 
for  that  you  are  a  being  of  many  different 
phases,  more,  far  more,  than  are  given  unto  the 
majority  of  mortals,  I  am  convinced  even  by 
our  short  acquaintance.  One  of  my  male 
friends  I  like  because  he  brings  me  bonbons^ 
always  doing  so  at  the  precise  moment  when 
my  inner  man  craves  that  particular  form  of 
sustenance ;  another  helps  to  illuminate  the 
groping  darkness  of  my  mind  as  to  a  future 
state,  his  strong  faith  giving  me  a  strength 
which  I  would  not  barter  for  untold  sums  of 
gold  ;  yet  another  wholly  disapproves  of  me, 
but  the  forceful  almost  brutal  way  in  which  he 
tells  me  home  truths  and  exposes  all  my 
personal  idiosyncrasies,  affects  me  like  a  bracing 
tonic  which  I  would  not  be  without.  And  yet 
again  there  is  one  who  finds  me  perfect,  and 
so  cunningly  does  he  word  his  creed  of  my 
perfections  that  it  penetrates  my  heart  with 
sweet  conviction,  while  my  spirit  acknowledges 
the  profoundness  of  his  discrimination  in  almost 
grovelling  gratitude  ;  one  I  am  persuaded  can- 
not possess  a  teaspoonful  of  brains  in  the  whole 
space  of  his  cranium,  but  he  whistles  divinely, 
and  in  certain   moods  he  stands  the  favourite. 


20  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xi 

And  SO  on  through  them  all,  yet  not  one  of  the 
long  list  knows  how  to  love  me  as  I  would  be 
loved,  not  one  has  been  able  to  call  forth  love  as 
love  should  be,  from  my  capricious  heart.  Is 
that  perchance  the  role  fate  destines  you  to  play, 
my  unknown,  mysterious  friend  ?     Nous  verrons. 

My  God,  I  am  engaged  !  Both  the  fact  and 
its  corresponding  man  had  entirely  escaped 
my  memory. 

You  will  call  me  flippant,  if  this  letter  reaches 
you  when  in  a  serious  mood  ;  or  dull,  should  it 
find  you  bored  with  life.  Is  it  not  a  trifle 
dangerous,  this  experiment  we  are  trying  of  a 
friendship  in  pen  and  ink  and  paper  ?  A  letter. 
What  thing  on  earth  more  dangerous  to  confide 
in  ?  Written  at  blood  heat,  it  may  reach  its 
destination  when  the  recipient's  mental  ther- 
mometer counts  zero,  and  the  burning  words 
and  thrilling  sentences  may  turn  to  ice  and  be 
congealed  as  they  are  read.  Or,  penned  in 
irritation  and  anger,  they  may  turn  a  melting 
mood  to  gall,  and  raise  evil  spirits  which  all 
future  efforts  may  be  powerless  to  exorcise. 
Ten  thousand  devilries  may  lie  unsuspected 
among  the  hastily-scribbled  words  or  carefully- 
thought-out  phrases,  destined  to  play  unutterable 
havoc  when  the  seal  shall  be  broken  and  the 
contents  disclosed.  A  letter  ;  the  most  uncer- 
tain thing  in  a  world  of  uncertainties,  the  best 
or  the  worst  thing  devised  by  mortals.  Were 
I    beside    you    and    said    a   stupid    thing,    the 


XI  PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  21 

quick  contraction  of  your  forehead  would  warn 
me  of  my  blunder  ;  or  if  the  thought  were  good 
and  you  should  find  it  worthy,  how  soon  the 
sudden  light  in  your  eyes  or  the  amused  line 
about  your  mouth  would  make  me  know  your 
thoughts.  I  can  hear  your  answer  to  this 
suggestive  sentence.  You  will  say  at  once, 
"Then  meet  me.  Think  no  more  of  these 
absurd  reasons  which  you  cannot  even  explain, 
but  which  you  persist  in  regarding  as  insur- 
mountable," and  so  on,  until  you  make  yourself 
a^^gi'yj  and  me  remorseful.  Alas,  it  is  not 
possible  ;  circumstances  are  too  strong  for  me, 
and  it  is  not  wholly  want  of  courage  on  my 
part,  as  you  seem  to  think.  If  it  ever  is,  this 
much-talked-of  meeting,  it  will  be  your  talisman 
on  the  ''peleton  de  fil "  which  brings  it  about, 
not  Mariquita. 

P.S, — Remember  that  in  the  fairy  tale  of 
Prince  Ahmed  the  clue  of  thread  was  to  roll  till 
it  reached  the  gates  of  the  castle ;  when  it  stopped 
four  lions  were  to  be  seen,  awake  and  roaring, 
but  a  bribe  of  food  thrown  to  them  rendered 
them  safe  to  pass! 


XII 

(Letter  missing) 


22  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xiiia 

XIII 

London,  12M  December. 
You  are  really  here,  actually  in  London  !  Is 
the  same  sunless  sky  above  your  head  and  mine, 
the  same  triste  atmosphere  around  us  both  ? 
Ah,  was  it  wise  to  come?  ^^Lhomme  propose^ 
Dieu  disposer  At  any  time  after  five  o'clock 
you  will  find  me. 

XIIlA 

London,  lyth  December  1840. 
There  are  some  happinesses  so  great  Satan 
cannot  pardon  them,  and  they  do  not  come 
from  God.  They  are  the  origin  of  all  the 
tortures  and  scourgings  which  have  been  dealt 
to  human  souls  since  the  world  began,  or  since 
penitence  existed.  My  scourging  has  com- 
menced in  the  misery  of  your  absence  ;  will  it 
end  there  ?  Words  cannot  say  how  I  miss  you 
and  miss  the  delight  of  being  with  you.  I  am 
nervous,  overwrought,  defiant,  reckless,  in  a 
word,  just  in  that  tragic  state  of  mind  when 
the  very  last  thing  I  should  do  is  what  I  am 
doing,  putting  my  tumultuous  thoughts  on 
paper.  A  faint  glimmer  of  reason  tells  me 
this,  but  is  not  sufficiently  strong  to  restrain 
me  from  the  folly.  Do  not  answer  me  in  the 
same    tone,    do   not   take    me    au    s&ieiix,   do 


XIV  PROSPER  M&RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE'  23 

not  mention  my  engagement,  which  I  have 
broken — perhaps  the  one  act  of  my  Hfe  which 
deserves  commendation.  Write  me  one  of  your 
airy  unserious  letters,  with  no  deep  meaning  to 
it,  Hke  a  cool  fresh  hand  laid  lightly  on  a  burn- 
ing head  tormented  with  sick  fancies  and  evil 
dreams.  Not  too  dear  a  hand,  which  would 
thrill  one  with  its  touch,  or  distress  one  lest  its 
owner  should  tire  in  the  act  of  standing  by  the 
couch  and  ministering  to  the  pain,  but  one  that 
is  only  kind  and  compassionate,  belonging  to  a 
good  dear  soul  who  would  not  have  you  turn 
and  thank  him,  or  bid  him  rest,  only  wishing 
you  to  sleep  and  forget.  Ay,  forget.  Memory 
is  counted  a  good  thing  to  possess,  but  is  not 
forgetting  a  far  higher  art,  a  vastly  better  thing  ? 
Yet  not  for  all  the  world  could  give  would  I 
forget  the  bliss  unspeakable  of  the  days  just 
past.  Write  to  me,  as  I  have  said,  lightly, 
taking  no  heed  of  my  tragic  gloominess.  My 
head  aches,  I  long  for  the  cool  compassionate 
hand. — A  toi  toujoicrs. 


XIV 

Chateau  Beaus^jour, 
Ydth  February  1842. 

Shall  you  be  glad  to  hear  from  me  again, 
cher  ami  ?  I  answer  the  question  for  myself, 
and  write.     As  you  will  see  by  the  heading  of 


24  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  XT 

my    letter,    I    am    with    our    kind    old    friend 

Madame  de  C ,  but  in  a  day  or  two  I  go 

to  England  for  a  short  visit,  after  which  my 
plans  are  uncertain.  You  promised  me  once 
some  souvenirs  of  your  Eastern  travels  (not  the 
Turkish  slippers  ;  those  I  still  refuse)  ;  send  them 
to  me  here,  before  I  leave.  From  England  I 
will  send  you  a  "  protocol "  in  some  measure 
outlining  our  future  relations  ;  do  you  not  find 
the  idea  a  rather  wise  one  ?  I  am  well,  and 
very  happy  at  the  prospect  of  hearing  from  you 
again,  perhaps  seeing  you,  of  that  anon.      When 

in  England  I  go  direct  to  Castle  D ,  Lord 

D 's  place  in  Surrey,  which  they  tell  me  is  one 

of  those  houses  best  worth  seeing  in  the  country. 
I  will  give  you  no  news  of  myself  until  I  hear 
from  you,  and  although  your  letter  will,  I  hope, 
reach  me  here,   I  shall  not  answer   it  until    I 

reach  D .      Madame  de  C begs  me  to 

send  mille  amities  de  sapart.     Shall  I  sign  myself 

Mariquita  ? 

XV 

D Castle,  Surrey, 

March  1842. 

Where  have  I  read  that  the  gift  of  a  mirror 
is  either  the  most  delicate  compliment  or  the 
most  deliberate  insult?  With  what  you  will 
probably  be  pleased  to  term  my  "  infernal 
coquetry,"  I   choose   to  flatter  myself  that   the 


XV  PROSPER  M&RIMEE'S  '  INCONNUE  '  25 

lovely  thing  you  call  ^^  un  miroir  Ttcrc^''  and 
which  came  to  me  quite  safely  before  I  left  the 
Chateau  Beausejour,  is  meant  as  the  former. 
Thank  you  so  much  ;  it  is  a  million  times  better 
than  the  slippers.  When  you  mentioned  com- 
fitures  of  rose,  bergamot,  and  jasmine,  it  sounded 
more  like  food  for  angels  than  for  mortals 
cursed  with  digestions,  but  oh,  the  sticky  sweet- 
ness of  the  dreadful  things,  how  can  you  like 
them  ?  Frankly,  they  are  not  to  my  taste. 
One  jar  I  gave,  as  you  told  me,  to  Madame  de 

C ,  and  she  said  far  more  amiable  things 

about  it  than  I  possibly  can,  if  I  am  to  retain 
any  regard  for  veracity.  But  thank  you  again 
so  much  for  the  mirror. 

A  curious  thing  has  happened  to  me.  An 
old  gentleman — and  not  so  very  old  either — 
who  knew  me  from  babyhood  died  suddenly, 
and  left  me  all  his  fortune.  Why,  he  alone 
knew,  and  as  he  has  taken  the  knowledge  with 
him  to  that  place  from  which  no  traveller 
returns,  small  chance  exists  of  any  one  else 
ever  being  enlightened  as  to  his  motives.  I 
can  hardly  understand  my  new  estate  as  yet, 
and  strangely  enough  do  not  feel  tempted  to 
spend  a  penny  of  my  unaccustomed  wealth. 
I  should  have  thought  that  any  one  blessed 
with  the  extravagant  tastes  which  I  possess, 
after  having  had  them  repressed  all  through 
life,  would  rush  into  wild  expenditure,  buy 
everything,  and  throw  money  away  senselessly, 


26  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xv 

but  this  absence  of  all  desire  to  spend  anything, 
in  me  of  all  living  people,  is  incomprehensible. 
I  suppose  it  is  the  first  strangeness  of  knowing 
that  I  could  be  lavish  if  I  would.  I  think  I 
should  like  to  travel,  I  have  seen  so  few  places 
or  things,  and  the  world  contains  so  many. 
Write  me  a  long  account  of  your  journeyings, 
and  tell  me  what  is  best  worth  the  time  spent 
upon  it.  I  have  a  fancy  to  go  to  different 
countries,  not  as  a  mere  tourist,  to  ''do  the 
sights  "  in  as  short  a  time  as  possible,  but  to 
settle  for  some  length  of  time  in  some  one 
attractive  spot,  to  study  the  languages  in  the 
countries  they  severally  belong  to,  and  study 
the  people,  their  ways  and  national  character- 
istics, at  the  same  time.  What  think  you  of 
my  idea  ?  I  feared  that  my  last  letter  would 
anger  you,  and  was  not  therefore  astonished  at 
your  not  answering  it.  The  protocol  I  felt 
sure  you  would  disapprove  of;  all  the  same,  I 
think  that  I  did  right  in  sending  it.^  See  how 
forgiving  I  am  for  your  total  disregard  of  it,  I 
write  humbly  asking  your  advice  as  to  the  dis- 
position of  myself  and  my  new  importance  in 
the  coming  years,  answer  me  nicely,  and  send 
me  that  little  history  of  yourself  and  your 
journeyings. 

This  old  castle  of  Lord  D is  delicious  ; 

how  I  wish  you  could  enjoy  it  with  me.      It  is 

positively  steeped  and  saturated  in  memories, 

1  The  letter  referred  to  is  evidently  lost. 


XVI  PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  27 

the  walls  have  grown  gray  with  all  that  they 
have  seen  and  heard,  the  very  stones  seem 
mellow  with  the  patience  and  humbleness  which 
hoary  old  Time  alone  can  bring.  So  much  has 
happened  here,  so  many  great  ones  of  the  earth 
have  lived  and  died  in  these  wide  wainscoted 
rooms  and  shadowy  corridors  and  noble  halls, 
that  I  wonder  visible  palpable  spirits  do  not 
meet  one  at  every  turn.  I  almost  wish  they 
did,  and  that  they  would  stop  and  tell  us  of 
the  buried  past,  and  whether  it  is  true  that  they 
think  the  present  is  puny  and  bloodless,  the  life 
of  to-day  a  mere  faint  copying  of  the  good  old 
times  so  stirring  and  bold. 

To-morrow  I  return  to  London,  but  only  for 
a  day  or  two.  Write  to  me  there  as  soon  as 
you  receive  this,  if  you  are  not  still  ill-tempered. 
— Adieu.     Je  vous  aime. 


XVI 

Paris,  nth  March  1842. 
I   left  London  suddenly,  and  have  been  here 
for  the  past  three  days,  but  purposely  have  not 
let  you  know.     To-night  I  leave  Paris  for  Italy 

with   Madame  C .     Your  charming  letter 

reached  me  just  before  I  left  London,  and  the 
account  of  your  travels  makes  me  long  still 
more  to  see  foreign  lands,  therefore  I  go.  You 
ask  me  if  I  have  changed,  and  add  that  you  are 


28  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xvii 

impatiently  waiting  for  me  to  become  "  moins 
jolie^^  before  again  meeting  me.  To  punish 
you  for  this  wicked  wish  I  will  tell  you  that  I 
am  not  "  moins  j'olie "  than  when  you  saw  me 
last.  My  mirror,  your  delightful  Turkish  one, 
tells  me  decidedly  a  flattering  tale  which  I 
should  not  have  mentioned  to  you  but  for  this 
unholy  wish  of  yours.  I  believe  I  could  rival 
your  beauty  of  Saragosa  should  we  meet.  As 
a  small  souvenir  I  send  you  a  purse,  but  feel 
obliged  to  confess  that  I  did  not  embroider  it 
myself. — Au  revoir. 


XVII 

Wednesday^  April  iZ ^2. 
You  actually  saw  me  when  I  was  in  Paris 
and  yet  did  not  speak  to  me  !  How  can  you 
own  to  such  a  baseness  ?  It  is  just  as  well  that 
you  add  the  statement  that  the  feeling  which 
prevented  you  from  doing  so  was  "  mesquin"  It 
may  have  been  my  "  satanic  pride,"  as  you 
forcibly  put  it,  which  made  me  pass  through 
without  telling  you,  but  pray  what  term  would 
you  apply  to  your  own  conduct  in  seeing  me, 
half  coming  to  speak  to  me,  and  then  letting 
me  go  my  way  in  silence  whilst  silently  going 
yours  ?  Do  not  write  to  me  of  egotism  and 
hypocrisy  if  calmly  and  in  cold  blood  you  did 
this    thing.      Must    we    always   quarrel  ?      No, 


XVII        mOSPER  MERIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  29 

you  have  not  the  right  to  scold  me,  as  in  a 
little  spasm  of  repentance  later  on  in  your 
letter  you  wisely  mention.  If  you  could  but 
know  all !  I  had  no  time  before  leaving  Paris 
to  let  you  know  at  what  date  we  expect  to  be 

in  Naples.     Madame  de  C is  an  uncertain 

mortal  like  myself,  therefore  our  united  plans 
are  doubly  uncertain.  I  will  ask  her  if  she 
remembers  the  occasion  you  mention,  but  that 
you  upon  any  occasion  ever  played  the  role  of 
"  niais  "  I  cannot  believe.  I  am  half  sorry  now 
that  I  did  not  let  you  know  I  was  in  Paris. 
It  being  morally  impossible  to  go  back  to  that 
time  and  to  decide  anew  and  differently,  I 
can  say  this  without  consequences.  But  only 
in  speech  can  I  tell  you  of  my  experiences  of 
the  last  two  years,  not  on  paper.  The  phases 
of  wifehood  and  widowhood  safely  passed,  the 
change  in  the  woman's  "  legal  status "  which 
long  ago  you  told  me  invariably  affected  her 
for  the  worse.  Will  you  find  it  so,  I  wonder, 
in  my  case  ?  Eh  bien,  we  have  not  met,  the 
tale  is  not  yet  told,  and  as  yet  you  can  know 
nothing.  I  half  long,  half  dread,  to  meet  you, 
so  great  is  the  gulf  that  has  opened  and 
widened  and  closed  between  us  since  those 
sunless  golden  December  days  in  London. 


30  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE 


XVIII 

Perhaps  I  have  remained  childish  in  many 
things,  and  very  glad  am  I  if  because  of  this 
fact  I  can  be  childishly  delighted  at  your 
saying  that  my  eyes  please  you,  that  they  even 
compare  favourably  with  those  of  the  beauties 
of  Constantinople  and  Smyrna,  to  whom  you 
have  doubtless  said  so  many  more  amiable 
things  than  you  say  to  me.  Why  waste  your 
time  in  repeating  so  often  that  I  am  a 
hypocrite?  In  your  heart  of  hearts  you  know 
the  statement  is  cruelly  untrue,  yet  in  the  face 
of  this  you  quote  my  own  language  to  me  in 
Jonathan  Swift's  immoral  maxim — "A  lie  is 
too  good  a  thing  to  be  wasted  " — thinking  by 
it  to  convince  me  of  the  care  with  which  you 
employ  a  lie.  I  send  you  an  essence  ;  translate 
the  word  into  its  real  meaning  and  cease 
reproaching  me  because  I  am  trying  to  do 
what  I  believe  to  be  right. 

(The  remainder  of  this  letter  is  missing.) 


XIX 

(Missing) 


XX  PROSPER  MERIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  ' 


XX 

D ,  lothjuly  1842. 

While  you  are  amusing  yourself  at  Avignon 
I  am  leading  the  quietest  and  most  studious 
life  possible  in  this  tiny  Swiss  village  lost 
among  mountains  and  lakes,  where  I  walk 
and  row  and  swim  for  exercise,  lest  too  much 
learning  should  drive  me  mad.  I  am  trying 
to  master  Greek,  and  am  at  the  same  time 
reading  Pope's  translation  of  Homer.  In  time, 
if  the  quiet  of  my  present  life  continues,  I  may 
accomplish  something.  You  give  me  no  definite 
news  about  your  chance  for  becoming  one  of 
the  immortals.  It  is  the  only  kind  of  immor- 
tality I  wish  for  you  just  yet.  To  see  you  an 
Academician  would  give  me  immense  pleasure 
and  pride,  to  lose  you  from  this  life  would,  I 
think,  kill  me,  or,  worse  than  that,  leave  me  to 
live  with  life's  light  extinguished.  I  felt  sure 
that  you  would  read  my  expression  aright,  and 
knew  that  by  "  essence "  I  meant  friendship. 
But  here,  in  this  quiet  spot  so  far  removed 
from  the  falseness  of  the  world,  so  near  to 
God's  heaven  where  truth  shines  in  the  blue 
of  the  sky  above  and  is  reflected  in  the  crystal 
waters  below,  touching  the  white  mountain-tops 
as  they  reach  far  beyond  the  delusions  of  earth, 
here  with  the  very  air  breathing  truth  in  its 
pure  freshness  untainted  by  contact  with  earth 


32  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  xxi 

or  things  earthy,  some  inward  force  stronger 
than  myself  compels  me  to  write  that  which 
I  know  will  make  you  angry,  and  you  will 
answer  with  scornful  cynical  words,  which  will 
cut  and  hurt  me.  Yet  even  knowing  this, 
perhaps  because  of  knowing  it,  the  truth  around 
me  in  sky  and  air  and  crystal  water  forces  me 
to  speak.  It  is  not  only  friendship  that  I  feel, 
but  love  so  strong  that  every  good  resolution 
I  have  made  snaps  like  glass  in  frosty  weather. 
Therefore  I  see  but  one  way  to  end  the 
struggle — half  measures  are  useless,  I  must 
break  off  everything.  If  I  write  to  you,  I  say 
what  I  have  promised  myself  not  even  to 
think  ;  if  I  see  you,  it  is  worse  still.  You  have 
told  me  your  story  of  the  pain  blanc  and  the 
pain  bis  at  the  very  moment  when  it  does  me 
good  in  helping  me  to  see  things  clearly,  not 
exactly  the  effect  you  intended  it  to  have 
perhaps,  but  the  one  which  of  itself  it  has  had. 
We  must  meet  no  more,  and  I  must  write  to 
you  no  more.  Nothing  is  left  me  to  give  you 
save  my  prayers,  and  for  all  good  and  for 
every  blessing  these  shall  be  yours. — Adieu. 


XXI 

D ,  i<^th  July  1842. 

I   give  it  up— you  are  incorrigible — you  are 
past  praying  for !      Let  us  be  friends  again  as 


XXII        PROSPER  ME  RIMER'S  '  INCONNUE  '  33 

before.  Our  journey  to  Italy  must  be  much 
later  than  I  hoped  ;  en  attendant  I  daily  go 
deeper  into  Greek,  and  am  becoming  much 
interested  in  it.  I  send  this  to  Paris,  as 
it  is,  I  fancy,  too  late  now  to  catch  you  at 
Avignon. 


XXII 

D ,  ^th  September  1842. 

Qnel  conte  de  f^es  is  this  you  tell  me  a  propos 
of  a  mysterious  female  travelling  alone  with 
you  for  upwards  of  some  fifty  hours  or  so? 
Are  you  emulating  the  pious  and  most  moral 
Dean  Swift  in  your  old  age,  and  shall  you 
write  a  history  of  still  another  "sentimental 
journey"  ?  I  can  only  trust  that  a  kind 
Providence  will  protect  you  as  it  did  him,  and 
that  with  him  you  will  be  able  devoutly  to 
exclaim,  your  eyes  raised  to  heaven  and 
gratitude  filling  your  heart  the  while,  '*  God 
tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb."  Shall 
you  take  this  aventure  de  voyage  as  the 
foundation  for  that  new  moral  novel  of  which 
you  spoke  to  me  in  your  last  letter?  I  send 
you  a  scrap  of  my  Greek  writing,  let  me  know 
if  you  can  decipher  it. — Mille  amities. 


34  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  xxiii 

XXIII 

D ,  \2th  October. 

We  are  just  leaving  this  quiet  spot  where  I 
have  passed  through  several  phases  of  feeling 
in  regard  to  you. 

The  time  spent  here  has  been  one  of  those 
pauses  in  life  which  are,  I  think,  given  to 
mortals  for  a  purpose.  One  of  those  intervals 
where,  if  they  will  but  face  the  music  and 
answer  honestly  the  questions  conscience  puts 
to  them,  those  answers  must  of  necessity  prove 
how  they  have  used  the  limitless  freedom 
granted  them  as  individual  free  agents.  The 
choice  between  good  and  evil  which,  when 
closely  looked  into,  assumes  an  appalling  re- 
sponsibility, has  been  their  own  willing  choice, 
and  nothing  further  is  left  for  them  to  do  but 
manfully  abide  the  issue.  The  only  trouble  is, 
that  if  the  pause  be  too  long  and  the  examina- 
tion prove  unsatisfactory,  a  restlessness  follows, 
and,  like  the  possessed  one  in  the  parable,  "  The 
last  state  of  that  man  is  worse  than  the  first." 
Self- introspection  may  be  useful  at  times, 
doubtless  it  is  so,  but  I  hold  strongly  to  the 
belief  that  in  no  case  can  fruitless  looking  back 
be  of  any  avail.  No  regret  or  remorse  can 
undo  the  past ;  the  record  of  each  act  is  written 
and  sealed  and  closed  for  ever.  Why  waste  the 
strength  of  the  present  in  useless  repinings,  in 


XXV        PROSPER  M^ RIMER'S  ' INCONNUE  '  35 

utterly  futile  wishes  for  the  "  might  have  been  "  ? 
The  second  stage  of  the  pause  has  come  to  me, 
and  an  intolerable  restlessness  possesses  me. 
To-morrow  we  leave  the  mountains  and  this 
chilly  clarified  air  of  crystal  truth,  betaking 
ourselves  we  do  not  quite  know  where,  perhaps 
Italy,  perhaps  Paris. 

Are  there  any  good  Greek  novels  to  be  had  ? 
You  once  suggested  that  I  would  end  by  be- 
coming an  author,  but  have  no  fear.  I  may 
have  committed  many  follies,  and  may  commit 
still  more  before  the  time  allotted  me  for  follies 
has  gone  to  swell  the  roll  of  years,  but  that 
weakest  of  all  weaknesses,  that  crowning  folly 
of  follies,  writing  a  book,  can  at  least  never  be 
laid  to  the  door  of  Voire  amie  devou^e. 


XXIV 

Paris,  Wednesday^  October  1842. 
I  am  here,  but  contrary  to  your  expectation  ; 
you    see    I    tell  you  of  the   fact.      My  cousin, 

Madame  G and  my  brother  are  both  with 

me. 

XXV 

Thursday. 

Your  note  has  just  come.  Enchanted  to 
accept  your  loge  at  the  Italian's  to-night.  My 
brother  will  accompany  me.         Mariquita. 


36  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE 


XXVI 


Sunday  Evenings  October  1842. 

"A  Roland  for  your  Oliver."  You  told  me 
once  of  a  dream  that  you  had  had  ;  of  a  garden 
in  Valencia,  where  I  was  with  you,  and  where 
you  spoke  a  language  which  in  your  waking 
hours  you  do  not  understand,  and  attempted 
to  do  a  deed  which  in  reality  would  be  impos- 
sible to  you,  namely,  to  crush  to  death  a  woman 
(your  false  diamond)  with  a  heavy  stone  from 
the  wall  above.  Now  hear  my  dream,  which 
made  last  night  one  long  hour  of  bewildered 
misery  to  me.  As  in  yours,  we  two  were  alone 
together  in  some  strange  country,  unlike  any 
I  have  ever  seen,  with  wide,  far-reaching  deserts 
all  around  us,  rippling  with  fine  golden  sand, 
hot  and  glinting  in  the  sun.  The  sky  was  of 
a  blue  which  seemed  to  live,  so  fervid  was  it, 
so  penetrating  in  the  warmth,  and  depth,  and 
richness  of  its  colour,  while  not  a  cloud  broke 
the  evenness  of  its  sapphire  surface.  No  trees 
were  there  of  any  kind  save  only  one,  but  that 
one  so  perfect  in  its  slender  symmetry,  so 
delicate  in  the  tender  tinting  of  its  drooping 
feathery  branches,  each  one  a  wide  long  leaf 
divided  into  thin  pointed  smaller  leaves,  the 
whole  a  thing  of  such  exquisite  and  matchless 
beauty  that  I  knew  I  stood  beneath  an  Eastern 
palm.     The   still   loveliness   of  the   scene  was 


XXVI       PROSPER  MArIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  37 

marred  only  by  one  unsightly  object,  but  that 
a  ghastly  one.  Bleached  and  dry  the  gaunt 
skeleton  of  a  camel  lay  on  the  glistening  sand, 
its  whitened  bones,  which  were  picked  clean  by 
carrion  birds,  telling  in  their  bare  mute  stillness 
of  the  noble-hearted  beast  who  had  bravely 
struggled  on  with  weakening  limbs  and  failing 
breath,  courageously  keeping  up  with  the  caravan 
laden  with  costly  stuffs  and  fragrant  spices,  the 
treasured  products  of  other  lands  which  were 
being  brought  back  across  long  miles  of  desert 
wastes.  Telling  so  pitifully  also  of  how  at 
last  the  limbs  refused  to  carry  the  brave  heart 
farther,  of  how  the  laboured  breath  fluttered 
painfully,  giving  one  great  sigh  of  almost  human 
pain,  then  stopped  for  ever.  But  not  before  a 
suffering  also  almost  human  had  come  to  the 
spirit  of  the  great  awkward  beast,  who,  with  dying 
eyes  turning  slowly  from  side  to  side,  watched 
the  halt  made  by  the  caravan,  and  heard  the 
order  given  to  unload  the  bags  of  silks  and 
spices  which  it  had  carried  so  far,  to  take  off 
the  trappings  and  coloured  worsted  tassels 
of  which  it  had  been  so  proud,  and  saw  all 
these  borne  away  and  placed  on  other  beasts, 
strong  and  still  of  use.  Then  came  the  order 
to  go  forward,  and  the  endless  line  of  camels 
and  men  and  gay  brilliant  colours  stretched  out 
along  the  sand,  growing  smaller  and  smaller  as 
they  went  on  towards  friends  and  welcome  and 
home,  until  at  last  there  was  only  a  speck  in 


38  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  xxvi 

the  far  distance,  each  moment  growing  smaller 
and  smaller  still  until  it  was  gone,  and  nothing 
remained  but  sand  and  sky  and  deadly  burning 
heat.  Haply  the  glazing  eyes  grew  dim  and 
sightless  before  those  other  different  specks 
against  the  vivid  blue  took  form  and  shape 
and  came  steadily  nearer,  the  ghoulish  carrion 
birds.  In  my  dream  you  stood  beneath  the 
palm  alert  and  wakeful,  but  a  strange  dull 
apathy  stole  slowly  over  me  in  the  sultry  noon- 
day heat,  and  I  could  not  clearly  see  the  bright 
forms  coming  suddenly  out  of  space,  lovely 
women  from  all  four  corners  of  the  world,  hair 
all  golden,  or  burnished  bronze,  or  richest  black, 
eyes  of  all  colours  flashing  brilliant  glances,  and 
laughing,  tempting  lips  calling  softly  in  tones 
like  fairy  music.  They  were  all  around  us, 
these  witching  shapes  of  beauty,  but  so  drowsy 
was  I,  that  I  heard  and  saw  too  vaguely  to 
really  comprehend,  until  at  last  my  heavy  eyes 
half  closed,  your  face  the  last  and  only  one  I 
looked  upon,  and  even  when  the  sleep-drugged 
lids  dropped  wholly,  the  impress  of  your  features 
was  still  beneath  them  as  I  fell  into  a  deep 
dreamless  calm.  When  I  awoke  (in  my  dream) 
it  was  cool  still  starlight,  and  I  waked  so  gently 
that  only  my  eyes  unclosed,  my  body  did  not 
move.  The  palm  still  reached  towards  heaven 
in  soft  faint  dusky  lines,  and  a  light  breeze 
stirred  the  feathery  leaves  which  at  mid-day 
had  not  moved.      I   spoke  your  name,  but  no 


XXVII       PROSPER  MERIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'  39 

answer  disturbed  the  starlit  stillness,  and  I 
thought  that  perhaps  you  too  slept.  Slowly 
remembrance  of  the  waking  day  came  back  to 
me,  and  the  lovely  forms  of  the  tempting 
women  grew  distinct  and  brilliant  to  my  mind 
as  they  had  not  seemed  when  actually  before 
my  eyes.  The  music  voices  seemed  to  call 
you  still,  but  far,  far  off,  like  distant  echoes. 
I  started  up,  and  the  second  time  spoke  your 
name  with  sharp  distinctness  which  seemed  to 
cut  the  stillness  of  the  night  like  a  pointed 
instrument.  Only  my  own  voice  answered  me, 
and  I  looked  wildly  around.  The  bones  of 
the  dead  camel  gleamed  ghostly  white,  the  palm 
was  beside  me  in  its  exquisite  beauty,  the  star- 
studded  heaven  above,  the  waste  of  desert  all 
around,  but  you  were  gone,  I  was  alone.  With 
a  piercing  cry  I  awoke,  trembling  and  cold. 
Will  you  interpret  my  dream  for  me  ?  you  know 
that  I  have  never  refused  anything  that  you 
have  asked.  How  good  of  you  to  say  that  you 
have  an  Etruscan  seal  for  me  ;  I  will  use  it  in 
sealing  my  letters  to  you,  but  never  when  I 
write  to  others. 


XXVII 

So  you  do  not  interpret  my  dream  after  all, 
only  wonder  where  I  have  learned  that  you 
have  friends  in  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe, 


40  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xxvii 

and  add  the  monstrous  fable  that  in  reality  you 
possess  but  one  in  Spain,  or  as  you  idiomatically 
express  it,  "/^  n'en  ai  qu'iin  ou  qu'tme  d  Madrid" 
The  number  strikes  me  as  modest  for  a  man 
of  your  undoubted  merit,  but  then  I  know  that 
you  are  modest,  and  moreover  discreet  with  a 
discreetness  far  beyond  that  generally  vouchsafed 
to  your  sex.  Your  original  idea  of  the  three 
heads  amuses  me  vastly,  and  I  am  puzzling  the 
one  which  I  know  to  be  actually  fastened  upon 
my  own  shoulders  with  vain  imaginings  as  to 
what  third  quality  can  possibly  remain  in  me 
which  is  worthy  to  join  those  of  a  coquette  and 
a  diplomatist. 

Are  you  really  ill,  or  do  you  say  so  merely 
to  excite  my  compassion,  which  for  you,  as  well 
you  know,  flows  in  a  plenteous  stream  at  a 
moment's  notice  ?  No,  you  looked  far  too 
vigorous  the  other  day  for  it  to  be  possible 
that  illness  and  you  have  aught  in  common. 
The  impression  you  then  left  upon  me  was  so 
perfectly  agreeable  a  one,  that  in  justice  to  you 
and  to  myself  I  find  it  wise  to  leave  it  undis- 
turbed. You  could  never  again,  I  believe,  be  so 
delightful,  and  in  order  that  this  impression 
may  remain  unspoiled  and  tenderly  enshrined 
within  my  memory,  I  have  decided  not  to  see 
you  again  during  the  remainder  of  my  stay  in 
Paris. 


xxviii     PROSPER  MERIM^E'S'INCONNUE'         41 


XXVIII 

Paris,  November  1842. 

As  we  seem  to  be  remaining  on  here  in- 
definitely, ten  thousand  annoying  things  having 
arisen  to  prevent,  for  the  moment  at  least,  the 
Italian  journey,  I  write  to  you  again.  The 
sentence  in  your  last  letter  telling  me  that  you 
are  really  ill,  touched  my  heart,  which,  believe 
me,  is  not  so  hard  as  you  suppose  it  to  be,  only 
somewhat  curiously  constituted,  and  probably 
different  from  those  belonging  to  other  women 
you  have  met. 

I  quite  long  for  the  seal  you  have  promised 
me  ;  it  exactly  suits  my  fancy.  You  must  one 
day  when  we  meet  (should  we  ever  meet 
again)  tell  me  the  meaning  of  the  device.  In 
return  I  will  explain  to  you  the  seal  I  generally 
use — a  six-sided  one  having  mottoes  in  French, 
English,  Italian,  Arabic,  Latin,  and  German. 
The  number,  you  see,  allows  of  two  for  each 
of  my  three  characters.  Diplomatist,  Coquette, 
and  that  mysterious  third  whose  title  you  so 
cruelly  withhold  from  me.  A  propos  of  German,  I 
send  you  a  little  song,  "  Das  Lied  des  Claerchens," 
which  I  have  copied  out  myself,  only  the  end, 
the  very  end,  I  have  not  written.  Some  day 
that  too  I  must  tell  you.  They  seem  to  be 
accumulating,  these  bits  of  information  which 
can  only  be  imparted  orally,  not  by  pen   and 


42  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  xxviii 

pencil.  If  only  I  could  be  sure  that  you  would 
be  as  charming  as  you  were  at  our  last  meeting, 
I  would  without  hesitation  name  the  hour  for 
another,  but,  pardon  my  saying  so,  you  are  just 
the  least  trifle  uncertain.  Look  into  my  eyes 
and  tell  me  if  this  be  not  the  truth. 

You  remember  Madame  de  P •  and    her 

mauvaise  langiie  and  abominable  rudeness  to  me 
some  time  ago  ?     Well,  precisely  Madame  de 

P did  I  meet  to-day  when  strolling  through 

the  gallery  of  the  Louvre,  and  had  she  been 
my  dearest  friend  she  could  not  have  shown 
more  pleasure  in  encountering  me.  She  seem- 
ingly ignored  completely  that  anything  but  the 
most  cordial  relations  had  ever  existed  between 
us ;  apparently  had  quite  forgotten  that  her 
language,  both  to  me  and  of  me,  had  been  any- 
thing but  parliamentary,  in  a  word,  deported 
herself  entirely  as  a  good  friend,  while  I  know 
that  she  has  been,  and  probably  still  is,  one  of 
my  most  unscrupulous  enemies.  How  can  you 
account  for  the  fact  that  instead  of  being  enraged 
at  her  hypocrisy  I  was  merely  amused,  after  a 
slow  unexcited  fashion,  at  her  entire  change  of 
tactics  ?  She  is  a  worldly  woman,  and  to  a 
certain  extent  a  clever  one,  therefore  she  has 
reasons  for  the  change  which  she  feels  it  is 
worth  her  while  to  make,  and  it  is  deliberately 
that  she  forgets  and  ignores  any  past  unplea- 
santness. Again  I  ask,  Why  was  I  agreeable  to 
that  woman  ?     For  I  was  ;  agreeable  not  in  the 


XXVIII      PROSPER  M£RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '         43 

sense  of  putting  myself  out  in  any  way,  but  I  did 
not  snub  her,  as  she  had  every  right  to  expect 
that  I  should  ;  I  did  not  make  her  new  role  at 
all  difficult  for  her,  on  the  contrary,  I  rather 
helped  her  over  the  stile  as  I  would  have  helped 
a  lame  dog  who  had  once  bitten  me.  I  believe 
that  there  must  be  a  certain  altitude  of  cool 
comfortable  indifference  which  if  once  reached 
by  mortals  renders  them  positively  delightful. 
They  become  convinced  that  life  is  too  short 
and  people  in  general  too  unimportant  to  allow 
the  one  to  be  disturbed,  or  the  other  to  disturb 
them,  and  as  a  consequence  no  one  has  power 
to  irritate  them,  or  vex  them,  or  move  them  to 
violent  emotion  of  any  kind,  while  they  in  turn 
grow  placidly  inclined  towards  every  one.  This 
really  is  the  only  argument  I  can  find  to  ex- 
plain my  agreeable  delightfulness  to  Madame 

de  P ,  who,  I  am  certain,  thought  me  all  of 

that.  There  was  no  forgiving  Christian  charity 
in  it ;  no  slightest  wish  to  resume  our  old 
friendly  relations  ;  only  the  most  absolute  in- 
difference. I  should  not  care  if  I  never  saw 
her  again,  but  if  I  met  her  to-morrow  I  should 
be  just  as  agreeable  to  her  as  I  was  to-day. 

A  ring  has  come  at  the  outer  door  of  the 
apartmjent.  What  unqualified  happiness  would 
be  my  portion  at  this  moment  if  I  could  be 
certain  that  within  the  next  I  should  see  you, 
hear  you  speak,  and  look  into  your  eyes  ;  if  I 
could  be  sure  that  your  hand  had  rung  the  bell, 


44  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  xxx 

and  that  quickly  I  should  have  you  by  my  side, 
feel  your  breath  upon  my  cheek,  and  drink  in 
that  intoxicating  sense  of  nearness  which  makes 
each  nerve  thrill  with  a  joy  so  deep  it  is  almost 
pain  !  Yet  more  than  ever  I  believe  that  it  is 
wiser,  far  wiser,  for  us  not  to  meet.  Aufwie- 
dersehn. 

P.S. — The  visitor  announced  by  the  bell  was 
a  cadaverous-looking  priest  bringing  a  subscrip- 
tion-book for  a  female  orphan  asylum ! 


XXIX 

(Letter  missing) 

XXX 

Paris,  December  1842. 

MON  CHER  AMI  INSOUCIANT — Pas  possible 
to  receive  your  gracious  visit  to-day,  for  still 
another  brother  has  come  to  join  me,  and  I  owe 
to  him  at  least  the  first  twenty-four  hours  of 
his  stay  in  Paris. 

Surely  it  was  for  you,  mon  cher^  that  the 
description  given  of  a  friend  of  mine  was 
originally  intended.  He  is  a  trifle  cynic.al,  this 
friend,  and  decidedly  pessimistic,  and  of  him  it 
was  reported  that  he  never  believed  in  anything 
until  he  saw  it,  and  then  he  was  convinced  that 
it   was   an   optical   illusion.     The   accuracy  of 


XXXII      PROSPER  M^RIMJ&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  45 

the  description  struck  me.  Have  you  by  chance 
sent  the  Etruscan  seal  to  your  one  friend  at 
Madrid  ? 

XXXI 

Sunday  Evening. 
On  Tuesday  at  two  o'clock,  if  you  will,  we 
might  try  the  Musee,  that  is,  if  this  evil  thing 
called  a  headache  has  by  that  time  returned 
to  the  lower  regions  where  it  rightly  belongs. 
Were  it  not  for  this  wretched  migraine  I  would 
write  you  a  wild  legend  of  the  north  in  return 
for  your  story  of  the  Spanish  barber. 


XXXII 

Thursday^  Midnight. 

You  were  tres  gentil  to-day,  and  on  my  part, 
believe  me,  I  am  tres  recomiaissante.  Your 
fears  lest  I  should  take  cold  were  unfounded, 
and  I  slept  perfectly  well,  with  no  tormenting 
dreams  of  lonely  deserts  and  an  Eastern  version 
of  the  Venusberg  in  Tannhaliser,  with  wastes 
of  sand,  a  palm  tree,  and  the  skeleton  of  a 
camel  for  the  mise  en  scene. 

After  all,  how  few  days  in  the  year,  or  in  a 
whole  life,  does  a  human  being  really  live ! 
We  sleep,  wake,  go  through  a  certain  number 
of  duties  or  so-called  pleasures,  eat,  read,  walk, 
see  those  who  are  around  us,  and  then  sleep 


46  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xxxiii 

again,  but  who  in  their  senses  could  seriously 
call  that  living  ?  Existing  if  you  will,  but 
nothing  more.  A  whole  life,  and  only  a  few 
days,  at  best  a  few  months,  of  living  such  as 
deserves  the  name,  to  be  gathered  out  of  the 
long  stretch  of  years.  The  thought  makes  me 
melancholy,  so  I  will  say  good-night,  lest  my 
dreary  mood  affects  you  too.  On  second 
thoughts  I  will  bid  you  good  morning,  for  that 
is  the  time  when  this  note  will  reach  you,  and 
I  would  that  on  opening  it  you  might  find  a 
sunshiny  morgengriiss,  not  gloomy  melancholy. 
The  flowers  I  send  are  fresh  and  sweet  as  I 
write,  and  may  perhaps  keep  a  tiny  perfume 
for  your  waking ;  I  bought  them  at  the  marM 
of  the  Madeleine  in  returning  home  to-day  after 
our  walk. — Bon  jour.  Mariquita. 

XXXIII 

Paris,  ■ 
Friday^  loth  December. 

Do  not  tempt  me.  When  the  2ist  of 
January  comes  I  may,  and  probably  shall, 
repent  in  sackcloth  and  ashes,  but  on  this  loth 
day  of  December  my  mind  is  firm  and  unmov- 
able,  I  cannot,  will  not,  go  again  to  the  Musee. 
The  arch  tempter  is  the  devil :  you  can  never 
take  second  place  in  anything,  therefore  if  you 
become  a  tempter  it  must  be  arch  tempter, 
i.e.  the  devil. 


XXXI ir      PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  47 

My  nerves  are  shaken  to  their  foundation 
by  the  most  piteous  sight  I  have  ever  seen. 
You  must  have  noticed  the  little  Jacques,  the 
merry  little  black-eyed  imp  who  was  always 
tumbling  about  the  courtyard  under  everybody's 
feet.  He  was  the  most  amusing  little  scamp  I 
ever  met,  and  the  concierge  and  his  wife 
positively  adored  him  ;  they  have  no  children  of 
their  own,  and  I  believe  they  picked  up  this 
waif  one  cold  winter  night  on  the  Boulevard 
where  he  had  been  purposely  lost.  Well,  poor 
little  Jacques  strayed  beyond  the  court  to-day, 
and  when  playing  in  the  street  fell  under  one 
of  the  lumbering  heavy  coal  carts,  and  was 
carried  back  a  poor  wee  bit  of  crushed  humanity, 
the  laughing  rosy  face  all  white  and  sharp  with 
pain.  But  through  all  his  suffering  he  seemed 
to  have  only  one  thought,  how  best  to  cheer 
the  distracted  old  couple  who  are  the  only 
father  and  mother  the  little  fellow  has  ever 
known.  '*  Do  not  cry,  petit  Papa  ;  Maman^  ne 
pleure pasr  This  the  weak  little  voice  said  over 
and  over  again  with  pathetic  monotonousness,  a 
pale  ghost  of  a  smile  on  the  small  drawn  features. 
Even  when  the  fever  came  and  he  grew  delirious, 
the  boy  turned  restlessly  from  side  to  side  with 
always  the  same  words,  "  Ne  pleure  pas  mammt^ 
bon  petit  papa,  ne  pleure  pas!'  Poor  little  child, 
there  was  nothing  to  do  for  him,  and  to-night 
or  to-morrow  he  must  die,  merry  little  Jacques. 

Forgive   me   for  not   coming   again    as  you 


48  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xxxiv 

wish,  and  do  not  quarrel  or  say  cutting  things 
to  me.  Little  Jacques  and  the  tragedy  of  his 
morsel  of  life  have  made  me  sad,  and  when  I 
am  sad  "  methinks  I  love  you  most." 


XXXIV 

Tuesday,  i^th  December. 

You  have  a  wonderful  patience,  mon  ami,  and 
a  persistence  which  ought  to  carry  you  far. 
Still  harping  on  the  Musee.  If  from  now  until 
20th  January  you  dwell  upon  this  one  idea, 
will  it  not  get  upon  your  nerves,  and  ought  you 
not  to  keep  those  same  nerves  quite  calm  for 
the  trying  ordeal  of  those  thirty-nine  visits  to 
the  Academicians  which  to  my  feeble  intellect 
appear  almost  as  formidable  as  the  Thirty-nine 
Articles  of  the  Protestant  faith  ? 

You  say  that  I  know  well  how  to  gild  the 
most  bitter  pill  ;  what  if  I  confess  that  I  find  it 
better  for  my  own  peace  of  mind  not  to  see 
you,  for  the  flattering  (and  true)  reason  that  a 
terrible  fear  then  comes  over  me  that  the  time 
may  arrive  when  I  shall  never  see  you  more  ? 
This  is  a  finer  gilding  than  most  pills  are  coated 
with.  If  you  could  but  understand  that  I  am 
very  weak  where  you  only  think  me  a  coquette. 

I  have  a  handkerchief  for  you,  which  took 
my  fancy  immensely ;  I  wonder  if  you  will  like 
it.  Tell  me  how  to  send  it  to  you,  and  pray 
that  I  may  keep  my  resolution  not  to  see  you. 


XXXVII     PROSPER  M&RIMJ^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '         49 

XXXV 

(Letter  missing) 

XXXVI 
(Letter  missing) 

XXXVII 

Paris, 
Monday^  December  1842. 

Why  to-night,  of  all  nights,  should  a  far-away 
memory  of  my  strange  lonely  childhood  come 
to  me  with  a  vivid  distinctness  ?  You  will 
smile  at  the  reminiscence,  and  smile  still  more 
at  the  weighty  importance  I  attached  to  it 
when  it  was  a  very  real  and  serious  experience 
to  me,  but  I  was  a  queer  child,  and  it  is 
characteristic.  I  am  afraid  I  was  wofully 
conceited,  and  it  may  be  that  just  such  experi- 
ences were  needed  in  order  to  suppress  my  undue 
opinion  of  myself  One  cold  winter  morning 
I  awoke  positively  bristling  with  good  resolu- 
tions. I  had  been  devouring  a  good  many 
books  too  highly  seasoned  with  religious  views 
for  a  small  person  of  my  morbid  tendencies  ;  I 
was  in  a  highly -strung  state  of  self-sacrifice, 
believing  with  fanatical  fierceness  that  even  I 
could  work  out  my  own  salvation  by  prayer 
E 


50  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xxxvii 

and  good  works,  and  a  strict  mortifying  of 
fleshly  lusts.  I  was,  in  a  word,  in  a  frightfully 
Pharisaical  frame  of  mind,  believing  secretly 
that  I  did  all  these  things  already,  if  not  quite 
perfectly,  still  infinitely  better  than  the  children 
around  me,  or  even  some  of  the  grown-up 
people ;  believing  also  that  I  was  on  special 
terms  of  privileged  intimacy  with  the  Almighty, 
that  I  understood  Him,  and  He  me,  a  good  deal 
better  than  most  people.  Jesus  was  my  friend, 
the  smallest  act  in  my  daily  life  I  did  for  Him, 
and  to  please  Him.  I  had  been  peculiarly  lucky 
for  some  time  past,  had  won  approbation  for 
my  quickness  at  my  lessons,  and  been  praised 
with  unusual  generosity  for  various  things. 
My  little  heart  swelled  with  the  true  pharisaical 
complacency,  and  I  felt  the  delightfully  soothing 
consciousness  that  I  was  *'  not  as  other  men 
are,"  only  I  said  children,  not  men.  For  some 
days  this  exalted  state  of  mind  had  worked 
very  well,  and  each  night  I  said  longer  and  longer 
prayers,  positively  revelling  in  the  state  of 
holiness  to  which  I  had  attained,  wrestling  with 
God  as  I  imagined  Jacob  wrestled  with  the 
angel,  only  all  my  entreaties  were  for  others, 
for  my  playmates,  my  companions  at  school, 
my  naughty  little  brothers,  that  they  might 
finally  be  brought  to  know  the  beauty  of 
holiness,  might  reach  the  state  of  boundless 
satisfaction  and  divine  peace  which  I  by  special 
grace  had  already  reached. 


XXXVII     PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  '  INCONNUE  '         51 

On  the  particular  winter  morning  referred  to, 
this  glow  of  godliness  was  very  strong  in  me, 
I  yearned  like  the  saints  of  old  to  be  up  and 
doing,  to  buckle  my  armour  on  and  to  fight 
the  battles  of  the  Lord.  Failing  actual  visible 
warfare  against  Satan,  I  meant  to  scourge  my- 
self, and  to  chastise  the  carnal  lusts  with  greater 
severity  than  ever.  First  dressing  without  a  fire, 
that  I  might  mortify  the  flesh,  blue  and  shivering 
I  went  down  and  inspected  the  ready  laid 
breakfast-table.  I  remembered  that  an  ugly 
crack  disfigured  my  youngest  brother's  favourite 
china  mug  from  which  he  drank  his  morning 
draught  of  milk.  The  child  himself  had  not 
noticed  the  blemish  across  the  large  gilt  letters, 
spelling — "  Love  the  Giver,"  which  was  the  pride 
of  his  baby  heart,  but  I  had,  and  at  the  time  it 
appeared,  congratulated  myself  that  it  was  in 
his  mug  not  mine.  In  the  flush  of  righteousness 
which  filled  my  heart  to  bursting,  I  determined 
to  exchange  the  cups  and  give  my  little  brother 
the  whole  one.  At  this  very  moment  he  came  to 
the  table,  and  I  hastened  to  make  the  exchange, 
before  he  could  see  it,  for  did  not  the  Bible  say 
"  Let  not  your  left  hand  know  what  the  right 
hand  doeth,"  and  had  not  the  full  meaning  of 
that  sentence  been  made  clear  to  me?  But, 
alas,  neither  right  nor  left  hand  could  be  de- 
pended on  that  fateful  day.  So  frozen  were 
my  fingers  after  the  fireless  room,  that  I  clumsily 
let  the  mug  fall,  and  my  brother  howled  with 


52  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  xxx vii 

grief  for  his  hopelessly  broken  treasure.  I  was 
sharply  scolded,  but  bore  it  meekly  for  "Jesus' 
sake,"  as  I  kept  repeating  to  my  sore  little 
heart,  which  knew  so  well  my  real  motive  and 
my  innocence.  The  baby  brother  refused  to 
kiss  me,  striking  at  me  in  unforgiving  anger 
for  destroying  the  thing  he  loved  the  best,  and 
heavy-hearted  I  went  to  my  lessons,  promptly 
receiving  a  mark  for  being  late,  won  because  I 
had  stopped  to  make  peace  with  the  child  I  had 
unintentionally  wronged.  Several  little  friends 
studied  with  me  and  the  class  in  history  held 
one  girl  so  nearly  my  equal  in  her  love  for 
books  that  we  were  called  the  rivals,  but  for 
some  time  past  she  had  occupied  the  first  place. 
A  question  came  that  day  at  which  she  hesi- 
tated :  if  she  could  not  reply  to  it  her  place 
would  be  mine.  It  was  a  terrible  moment.  I 
knew  the  required  answer,  the  coveted  honour 
was  within  my  grasp,  but  the  Bible  told  me  to 
prefer  others  before  myself,  and  this  girl  was 
my  friend.  She  only  needed  a  hint,  one  word, 
and  I  knew  she  would  remember  all  that  was 
necessary.  Speaking  while  reciting  lessons 
was  strictly  forbidden  by  our  governess,  but  I 
took  out  my  pocket  handkerchief,  coughed,  and 
quickly  whispered  the  word  which  I  knew  would 
save  my  companion.  She  took  advantage  of 
my  hint,  and  remained  head  of  the  class  ;  but 
for  me  a  speedy  judgment  followed.  When 
accused  of  having  spoken,  I   dared  not  lie,  so 


XXXVII     PROSPER  M£RIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  53 

received  two  more  bad  marks  to  add  to  the  one 
for  unpunctuality  ;  but  worse,  far  worse  than 
this  was  the  blow  dealt  me  by  the  friend  I  had 
rescued  at  the  cost  of  my  own  advancement. 
She  unhesitatingly  denied  having  heard  what  I 
had  said.  This  literally  staggered  me  for  a 
moment,  and  bitterly  did  I  reproach  her  when 
later  we  spoke  together,  but  she  was  scornful 
in  her  denials,  and  I  knew  when  we  parted 
that  our  friendship,  which  had  been  bound  by 
solemn  oaths  to  endure  through  eternity,  was 
destroyed.  During  that  entire  day  the  same 
evil  chance  followed  me.  On  every  side  I  was 
misunderstood  or  reprimanded  for  things  I  had 
not  done,  until  I  grew  fearful  and  bewildered. 
All  my  self-satisfaction  seemed  to  shrivel  up  ; 
the  confident  reliance  I  had  had  upon  God  melted 
away,  the  warm  glow  which  had  enveloped  me 
and  made  me  feel  so  strong  had  grown  chill 
and  feeble,  and  a  sullen  despair  seemed  creeping 
over  me  with  a  resentful  sense  of  injustice.  As 
the  early  winter  evening  came  on  1  wandered 
about  the  house  disconsolately,  too  proud  to 
confess  the  soreness  of  my  wounded  feelings, 
too  miserable  to  stay  in  the  warm  cheerful 
nursery  where  the  little  brothers  were  playing. 
We  children  had  been  left  to  the  care  of  ser- 
vants, and  in  the  great  lonely  house  the  nursery 
was  the  one  bright  spot.  Finally,  I  went  to  the 
library  where  the  shutters  of  the  windows  were 
not  yet  closed,  and  curled  myself  up  among  the 


54  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xxxvii 

cushions  in  one  of  the  low  wide  seats.  I  can 
see  the  little  crumpled  figure  now,  with  the 
sore  child's  heart  almost  bursting,  and  the 
rebellious  tears  which  came  hot  and  fast,  dashed 
away  by  angry  little  hands.  The  room  grew 
darker  and  the  things  in  it  turned  to  mere 
shadowy  outlines,  but  the  small  form  in  the 
window-seat  sat  on  looking  hopelessly  at  the 
frosty  stars  which  blinked  and  twinkled  mock- 
ingly. 

"  Nobody  loves  me,  nobody  cares.  It's  no 
use  trying.  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  God,  or 
He  would  not  let  people  not  understand.  Why 
do  people  hurt  me  so  when  I  want  to  be 
good  ?  " 

Poor  little  angry,  doubting,  lonely  child.  1 
feel  sorry  for  her  as  I  sit  here  to-night,  writing 
to  you  ;  are  you  sorry  for  her,  or  do  you  not 
understand  ? 

The  hot  tears  came  faster  still,  and  the  child 
let  them  fall.  Presently  a  cold  nose  rubbed 
itself  against  her  hand,  and  a  yellow  greyhound 
jumped  up  beside  her.  Passionately  she  threw 
her  arms  around  the  dog  drawing  him  tightly 
to  her. 

"  O  Zippy,  Zippy,  love  me  !  Love  me  back  ! 
Don't  run  away,  1  love  you  Zip,  love  me  back, 
love  me  back  !  " 

Please  be  sorry  for  the  little  child. 

I  think  I  never  have  loved  you  as  I  loved 
you  yesterday. 


XXXIX     PROSPER  MARIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  55 

XXXVIII 

Paris, 
New  Yeafs  Day  1843. 

The  very  first  words  that  I  write  in  this  glad 
New  year  of  grace  must  be  for  you  ;  but  have 
you  welcome  large  enough  for  all  the  love  they 
bring,  the  wishes  that  every  good  on  earth  may 
come  to  you,  the  prayer  that  sorrow  and  pain 
may  never  be  your  portion,  the  trust  that  future 
years  may  gather  only  blessings,  joy,  delight 
for  you,  till  life  shall  close,  and  gentle  death 
shall  bring  you  peace  ? 

For  the  letters  you  send  my  brother  I  cannot 
thank  you  in  writing  when  I  know  you  to  be 
so  near,  therefore  meet  me  as  usual,  and  you 
will  find  me  appreciative  of  this  latest  kindness 
added  to  so  many  earlier  ones. 

They  tell  me  that  once  an  Academician,  a 
man  becomes  something  between  a  rock  and  a 
mummy  ;  is  this  true,  and  shall  you  turn  into 
this  sensitive  thing  ?  Are  the  following  German 
characters  correct  ?     Ich  Hebe  dick 


XXXIX 

Wednesday. 

Your  account  of  Rachel  amused  me  very 
much,  one  can  hardly  blame  her  for  being 
annoyed  at  the  absurd  interruptions  during  her 
recitation.     Yes,  certainly   I   will  come  for  the 


56  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  XLI 

walk.  At  two  o'clock  to-morrow,  Thursday. 
Do  pray  for  fine  weather,  this  sort  of  thing  may 
be  good  for  fishes,  but  I  hardly  swim  well 
enough  to  enjoy  it. — A  demaiji. 


XL 

Friday  Evening^  i  St h  January  1843. 
You  seemed  so  anxious  lest  I  should  suffer 
from  our  drenching  that  I  send  a  line  to  assure 
you  that  I  am  all  right.      My  cheeks  burned  so 

when  I  came  in  that  my  cousin  Madame  G 

asked  if  I  had  fever  ;  I  did  not  tell  her  the 
varied  excitements  we  had  gone  through  in 
order  to  find  a  shelter  from  the  tempest,  enough 
I  think  to  account  for  a  dozen  fevers !  What 
a  rain  that  was,  worse  a  thousand  times  than 
that  of  a  fortnight  ago,  when  I  declined  to  play 
the  part  of  fish.  Why  were  you  sad  yesterday  ? 
The  question  has  sorely  puzzled  me  since  we 
parted.     Au  revoir^au  revoir  I 


XLI 

Saturday. 

So  tired  !  Oh  so  tired  am  I,  that  were  it  not 
for  my  promise  I  would  not  write ;  instead  I 
should  like  to  sleep,  but  happiness  I  think  makes 
me  wakeful.  Could  I  but  be  sure  of  such 
dreams    as  our  meeting   of  yesterday  I  would 


XLii        PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S'INCONNUE'  57 

sleep  in  spite  of  happiness,  knowing  that  they 
would  bring  so  deep  a  joy  that  in  them  I  could 
lull  my  soul  to  sweet  forgetfulness  till  we  could 
meet  again. 


XLII 

1 . 3  o Wednesday^ ' 

January  1843. 

The  weather  is  so  uncertain  that  I  have 
decided  not  to  walk,  and  send  this  before  two 
o'clock  that  you  may  not  wait  for  me.  Were 
you  quite  just  yesterday,  or  kind  ?  I  think  you 
were  neither.  And  because  I  may  or  may  not 
do  this  or  that  one  day  and  not  another,  you 
should  not  claim  the  one  or  the  other  as  a  pre- 
cedent. Unless  you  promise  to  remember  my 
conditions,  and  to  keep  your  own  promises,  our 
walks  must  be  discontinued.  You  would  not 
believe  that  I  seriously  meant  this  when  I  said 
it  the  other  day,  almost  a  week  ago,  but  do  you 
not  believe  it  now?  You  call  the  walks  a 
pleasure ;  you  tell  me  they  are  the  greatest 
happiness  you  know ;  yet  deliberately  you  pre- 
vent them  from  being  enjoyed,  and  this  by  your 
own  perverseness.     Is  this  reasonable  ? 


XLIII 

(Letter  missing) 


58  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE 

XLIV 
(Letter  missing) 


XLV 

26th  January  1843. 
A  truce,  a  truce,  a  truce !  Life  is  not  worth 
the  living  at  such  a  price  as  this.  I  cry  mea 
culpa,  so  have  done ;  let  this  unseemly  strife 
between  us  end,  and  let  us  be  at  peace.  So 
weary  am  I,  so  tired,  I  think  I  would  purchase 
peace  at  any  price,  if  death  itself  must  prove 
the  penalty.  Come,  I  have  drugged  my  con- 
science. We'll  look  at  it  together.  It  lies  so 
still — so  still — what  is  so  still  as  a  conscience 
drugged  ?  I  seem  unable  to  find  a  simile 
strong  enough  ;  out  of  your  cleverness,  your 
mocking,  cutting  rhetoric  of  speech,  your  wit, 
your  irony,  your  cruel,  cold  sharp  cynicism, 
choose  me  a  fitting  phrase  to  say  how  still,  how 
stilly  quiet  a  thing  a  drugged  conscience  is.  I 
am  very  weak  in  words,  actions  are  my  forte, 
and  actions  they  say  speak  louder  than  words ! 
So  still,  so  still,  so  deadly  still !  My  God  !  I 
know  how  still  it  lies,  I  have  found  the  simile. 
The  gaunt  ghastly  skeleton  rotting  on  the 
sand  ! ! !  There  it  is  ;  the  simile,  not  the  skele- 
ton, I  write  so  fast  I  may  not  make  the  words 
distinct.      But  you  must  see  it ;  even  in  a  dream 


XLV        PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  59 

it  was  cut  so  sharp  against  God's  heaven  of 
blue.  It  never  moved  so  much  as  a  hair's 
breadth  ;  the  white  ghostly  thing  with  the  stars 
looking  at  it  pityingly  in  the  soft  south  wind. 
Even  the  breeze  did  not  move  it ;  and  the  sun, 
burning  with  a  furnace  heat,  never  stirred  it, 
only  bleached  it  drier  and  drier.  Heavens,  it 
was  dry  enough  I  trow  when  I  saw  it,  perhaps 
now  it  is  whitened  dust,  blown  to  the  four 
corners  of  the  earth.  Then  it  could  no  longer 
be  my  simile,  for  it  would  move,  and  movement 
for  a  conscience  drugged  is  a  foolish  contradic- 
tion in  terms.  Well  now  love  me — love  me 
back !  love  me  back !  I  feel  like  that  little 
crumpled  figure  that  once  sat  in  the  window- 
seat  in  the  dusky  gloaming  all  alone.  The  poor 
little  angry,  doubting,  lonely  child,  whom  I  told 
you  I  was  sorry  for.  She  had  fought  her  little 
fight  with  such  a  confident,  conceited,  phari- 
saical  little  ignorant  heart,  and  when  the  end 
came  it  was  "  Love  me  back !  Love  me  back  ! 
I  love  you."  And  the  little  yellow  greyhound, 
poor  faithful  affectionate  dead  and  buried  little 
Zippy  dog,  settled  warmly  down  beside  her  in 
the  chilly  dark  and  licked  the  angry  childish 
hands  which  had  dashed  the  tears  away,  and 
loved  her  back  again.  "  Is  thy  servant  a  dog 
that  he  should  do  this  thing?"  The  term  dog 
does  not  seem  to  be  used  in  quite  a  flattering 
sense  in  this  somewhat  sarcastic  biblical  ques- 
tion, but  for  myself  I  rather  query  if  the  fidelity 


6o  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  XLViil 

of  a  dog  has  ever  been  equalled  by  a  man. 
What  think  you  ?  Ask  pardon,  then  love  me 
back,  love  me  back !  Love  is  the  only  real 
sunshine,  and  without  sunshine  I  cannot  live. 
I  have  a  sharp  pain  in  my  side,  the  left ;  is  that 
where  conscience  is,  or  only  one's  heart  ? 


XLVI 

Paris,  2d  February. 
Could  we  not  find  some  new  place  for  our 
walks  ?     There  are  too  many  people  one  knows 
in  Paris  now  to  make  it  either  safe  or  amusing 
to  risk  meeting  them. 

XLVII 
(Letter  missing) 

XLVIII 

Paris, 
Sunday  Mornings  nth  February. 

Wer  besser  liebt  ?     Should  you  ever  ask  me 
that  question  again  most  unhesitatingly  could 

I  give  the   answer 1  love  best.     But  you 

will  not  think  so  when  I  add  that  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  see  you  to-day,  I  am  feeling  anything 
but  well,  and  several  annoying  things  prevent 


XL7III      PROSPER  M&RIMM'S  ' INCONNUE'         6i 

all  hope  of  my  being  able  to  enjoy  our  walk. 
Further,  I  cannot  name  any  day  or  hour  just  at 
present  when  I  can  promise  to  come.  We  must 
trust  to  circumstances  growing  more  favourable. 
With  a  most  unsmiling  face  do  I  write  all  this, 

for    I    am  disappointed,  mais que  voulez- 

vous  ?  All  the  world  seems  going  to  church  ; 
from  my  window,  as  I  write,  I  see  men,  women, 
and  children  coming  and  going  up  the  wide 
steps  of  the  Madeleine  in  an  endless  ceaseless 
stream. 

There  is  a  place  (I  will  not  tell  you  where, 
and  you  are  never  likely  to  come  across  it),  but 
there  is  one  lovely  corner  of  the  world,  where, 
could  I  go  to-day,  I  should  feel  the  better  for 
it.  A  quiet  spot,  where  prayer  is  real  and  faith 
is  not  a  dream.  Imagine  a  wide,  blue  lake, 
stretched  out  in  shimmering  beauty ;  from  its 
shores  rise  gently -sloping  hills,  grass -covered, 
or  thick  with  foliage  in  every  shade  of  green, 
where  deep  cool  shadows  lie  in  dark  streaks  so 
restful  amidst  the  flooding  sunshine.  Far  off  is 
one  white-capped  mountain  peak,  kissed  every 
morning  by  the  earliest  sunbeam  and  the  first 
pink  flush  of  dawn,  and  every  evening  greeted 
by  the  latest  crimson  glow  of  the  purple  god  as 
he  slowly  sinks  to  rest.  Fair  islands  dot  the 
lake,  fairest  of  all  the  one  I  take  you  to  on  a 
quiet  summer  Sunday.  Through  a  wood,  along 
a  narrow  winding  path  with  high  trees  on  either 
side  must  you  go,  until  a  pile  of  stones  sur- 


62  AN-  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  xlviii 

mounted  by  a  cross  arrests  your  eye.  The 
path  leads  on,  and  a  stillness  seems  to  have 
fallen  on  you  as  you  walk,  perhaps  from  the 
shadow  of  the  cross.  Soon,  quite  straight  before 
you  is  a  wooded  grove  of  white  birch  trees,  tall 
slim  poplars,  and  young  leafy  oaks.  A  space 
is  here,  around  it  rustic  seats,  and  fronting  you 
as  you  stand,  a  rocky  altar  twined  with  flowers, 
above  this  a  tall  white  cross  with  arms  out- 
stretched. Overhead  only  the  deep  blue  vault 
of  heaven,  around  the  tranquil  water  of  the 
lake.  The  pkce  is  empty,  but  slowly  one  by 
one  the  rustic  seats  fill  quietly;  those  who  fill 
them  seeming  to  be  hushed  by  the  same  curious 
stillness  which  has  fallen  on  you  since  passing 
the  wayside  cross.  There  is  something  holy  in 
the  silence,  and  the  whisper  of  the  breeze  which 
just  stirs  the  leaves  in  passing  making  them 
glint  and  flash  in  the  sunlight,  seems  to  fill  you 
with  a  strangely  penetrating  sense  of  calm. 

Suddenly,  in  the  distance,  comes  a  faint  far 
sound  of  voices  singing,  at  first  almost  unheard, 
but  each  moment  growing  clearer,  louder,  in  the 
h)^mn  of  praise  ;  and  presently  a  strain  of  music 
swells  the  sound,  while  white -robed  choristers 
wend  along  the  curving  path,  their  fresh  young 
voices  mounting  up  towards  heaven,  higher  and 
higher,  until,  as  the  surpliced  band  reaches  the 
space  before  the  altar  the  sound  has  grown  to 
thrilling  gladness.  Those  quiet  ones  who  fill 
the  rustic  seats  have  joined  their  voices  to  the 


XL VIII      PROSPER  m£RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  63 

song,  and  joyous  echoes  fill  the  shadowy  wood, 
floating  far  across  the  shining  lake.  Ah,  this  is 
praise  indeed  in  its  purest,  simplest  form.  The 
stillness  falls  again,  one  single  earnest  voice 
pleading  to  God  above  for  mercy  and  for- 
giveness of  sins  to  erring  mortals,  being  the  only 
one  that  breaks  upon  the  air.  High  above  the 
kneeling  forms  stands  the  tall  white  cross,  not 
only  as  the  emblem  of  that  other  shameful  tree 
upon  which  hung  the  God  Man,  but  with 
a  loving,  yearning  tenderness  all  its  own. 
Strangely  enough  it  bends  slightly  forward,  not 
sufficiently  to  affright  you,  lest  weighted  with 
all  the  agony  and  woe  of  those  for  whose  sins 
it  once  bore  the  sacrifice,  it  should  fall  upon 
and  crush  you,  but  tenderly,  wooingly,  as  though 
to  draw  you  nearer  and  enfold  you  in  the 
stretched -out  arms,  "mighty  to  save."  Hot 
waves  of  feeling  sweep  over  you,  strange  un- 
bidden tears  come  to  your  eyes,  the  world  and 
scheming  noisy  life  seem  immeasurably  far  off 
from  you  in  this  island  chapel  by  the  lake  with 
only  God's  high,  free  heaven  for  a  dome. 
Thoughts  which  have  not  been  yours  for  years 
come  crowding  quickly,  speaking  with  small 
still  voices.  Those  you  have  loved  and  lost,  and 
perforce  have  learned  to  live  without,  feel  nearer 
to  you  in  that  lovely,  lonely  spot  than  they  ever 
can  in  a  busy  world  ;  some  spell  draws  you 
close  to  them  with  all  the  old,  warm  love  of 
long    ago.     The    prayers    are    over,    the    glad 


64  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  xlvih 

praise  mounts  once  more  to  Heaven,  and  then, 
as  the  choristers  wind  slowly  through  the  wood 
again,  the  sound  of  singing  voices  grows  fainter 
and  fainter,  dying  away  at  last  in  a  distant, 
deep  Amen.  The  hushed  sense  of  silence 
comes  anew,  all  is  so  still. 

I  saw  it  once  long  years  ago,  the  strangely 
peaceful,  lake-side  chapel  in  the  wood  ;  I  wish 
I  could  show  it  to  you  to-day. 

But  it  is  not  here,  not  in  brilliant  Paris  ; 
there  is  no  room  for  it,  no  soil  on  which  to 
plant  so  plain  a  cross,  and  in  all  the  wide,  broad 
streets  of  Paris  not  space  enough  for  that  narrow 
curving  path  leading  to  the  altar,  and  where 
the  Amen  dies  away.  It  is  not  here,  but  the 
old  life  is,  the  wicked,  old  humbugging  life  of 
the  wicked,  old  humbugging  world,  with  its 
iron  force  of  habit,  its  pleasant,  mocking  smiles, 
its  thousand  cursed  doubts  and  wonderings, 
its  cool,  intellectual  reasonings,  its  saturnine 
humour,  its  red-blooded  passions.  Vive  V amour 
is  the  song  sung  best  in  Paris — Love  is  the 
god  we  worship,  you  and  I,  the  dear  god  who 
claims  our  adoration.  And  'tis  not  a  bad 
worship  after  all,  not  for  us,  for  you  and  for  me 
— in  Paris. 

It  looks  like  snow.  I  am  wise,  I  think,  to 
decide  against  our  walk  for  to-day,  but  unless  I 
send  this  letter  quickly,  it  will  hardly  reach  you 
before  the  hour  when  we  should  have  met.  I 
kiss  you  in  my  heart,  au  revoir. 


XLix       PROSPER  MERIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE'  65 


XLIX 

Sunday  Eve;itng,  1 1  th  February. 

Dear  heart,  do  not  cavil  at  my  every  word, 
almost  my  every  thought.  I  was  really  ill 
this  morning,  and  therefore  could  not  walk ; 
really  occupied  with  necessary  things  (all  con- 
cerning other  people),  therefore  could  not  meet 
you,  much  as  I  wished  to  do  so.  Yesterday 
afternoon  I  too  found  the  weather  superb,  yet 
where  do  you  suppose  I  spent  the  glorious 
sunshiny  hours  ?  In  the  Petit  St.  Thomas,  that 
fearful  shop,  crushed,  crowded,  almost  suffo- 
cated ;  tormented  to  buy  on  the  right  side  and 
on  the  left,  elbowed  by  fat  women  who  had 
breakfasted  on  onions,  mes  paitvres  pieds  ecrases 
by  fatter  men  come  to  buy  cotton  night-caps. 
Altogether  it  was  a  pleasant  way  to  spend  a 
perfect  afternoon,  far  pleasanter  than  merely 
walking  with  you  in  the  park  at  Versailles  or 
under  the  great  trees  at  St.  Germain !  My 
cousin  is  going  away  on  Thursday,  and  wanted 
me  to  help  her  with  her  shopping.  Could  I 
say  "  No,  I  would  rather  not,  thank  you  kindly  ; 
I  have  promised  to  spend  just  that  time  with 
the  cleverest,  wittiest  man  in  France,  he  is  far 
more  amusing  than  you  "  ?  Be  reasonable,  at 
least  outwardly.  It  is  the  little  outward  reason 
that  leaves  us  a  few  loopholes  in  this  mad  world 
of  ours  for  bits  of  delicious  stolen  happiness. 
F 


66  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  Li 

What  have  you  for  me  that  I  shall  think 
stupid  ?  You  must  have  gone  a  long  way  to 
find  that,  a  stupid  thing,  when  your  hands 
give  it. 

That  very  last  walk  must  not  be  repeated — 
in  detail,  comprenez-voiis  ?  en  gros^  mais  pas  en 
detail.     Please  remember  this. 


L 

(Letter  missing) 


LI 

i6tk  February. 

Oh  the  lovely  pins,  how  charming  of  you ! 
The  blue  shawl  I  find  a  trifle  gay,  but  have  a 
brilliant  idea  as  to  how  it  had  best  be  used.  I 
will  explain  it  to  you  when  we  meet.  My 
cousin  is  waiting  in  the  carriage  for  me  ;  I  have 
not  a  moment.  Oh  for  a  little  sunshine,  what 
has  happened  to  the  weather  ?  The  very  first 
fine  day  I  promise  to  try  my  best,  for  see  you 
soon — I  must.  I  was  furious  with  you  the  other 
night  at  the  opera,  but  to-day  I  forgive  you,  et 
je  vans  aime.      Love  me  back,  love  me  back. 


LII 
(Letter  missing) 


LVi  PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  67 

LlII 

Thursday^  February  1843. 

Is  the  Mr.  Sharpe  whose  illness  I  have  just 
heard  of  your  friend  ?  I  once  met  him  in 
London.  Poor  man.  What  a  monstrous, 
threadbare  sort  of  a  week  I  have  passed ! 
Shops,  shops,  shops,  until  every  idea  in  my 
head  seems  turned  into  lace  or  ribbon.  On 
Friday  or  Saturday  I  hope  to  be  free.  Do  take 
care  of  your  poor  eye.  I  am  sincerely  dis- 
tressed about  it. 

LIV 

(Letter  missing) 

LV 
(Letter  missing) 


LVI 

I'jth  February  1843. 

What  can  I  say  to  you  to  help  your  sad 
thoughts  ?  You  know  that  you  have  all  my 
sympathy.  Go  at  once  to  London  if  you  think 
you  ought  to  do  so,  or  if  it  would  give  you 
pleasure,  or  give  pleasure  to  your  sick  friend. 


68  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  lx 

You  may  later  regret  not  having  done  so.  I 
will  write  to  you  while  you  are  gone,  should 
you  decide  to  go,  then,  after  that,  I  think  I 
will  write  no  more,  I  dare  not,  I  find  more 
courage  comes  to  me  in  speaking. 


LVII 

Thursday  Momingy  \st  March  1843. 
Saturday,  at  the  same  time  and  place,  weather 
permitting ! 

LVIII 
(Letter  missing) 

LIX 
(Letter  missing) 

LX 

Paris,  Friday. 
If  you  love  the  sunshine  I  adore  it !  I 
sympathise  with  the  religion  which  makes  the 
sun  its  god,  so  great  is  my  devotion  for  it.  I 
know  that  I  am  better  physically  and  morally 
when  it  shines  upon  me  ;  it  improves  my  temper 
and  puts  me  at  peace  with  mankind.  But  that 
you   love  me  better  in  sunshine  than  at  other 


LX  PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  69 

times  suggests  other  ideas  not  so  clear  to  my 
mind  as  my  own  are  upon  the  incalculable  value 
of  the  sun.  No,  I  do  not  quite  approve  of  this  ; 
it  does  not  appeal  to  me  with  the  entire  appre- 
ciation which  most  of  your  ideas  excite.  I 
have  just  read  the  final  sentence  of  your  note 
again,  and  more  carefully,  and  find  that  I  was 
a  trifle  hasty  in  my  rendering  of  it.  You 
distinctly  say  after  all,  that  you  love  me  "  dans 
tons  les  temps"  but  that  the  happiness  of  seeing 
me  is  greater  happiness  when  the  sun  illuminates 
it.  Now  the  subtilty  of  this  distinction  appeals 
to  me  delightfully,  for  does  it  not  prove  that 
sunshine  affects  you  as  it  does  me,  giving  you 
more  pleasure  in  all  life,  even  in  love  ?  A  la 
bonne  heure^  I  like  you  to  think  like  me,  and  I 
try  to  think  with  you. 

What  an  inanely  stupid  letter !  A  bread- 
and-butter  miss  of  sixteen  would  blush  to  send 
it !  But  I  feel  idiotic,  rather  drunk  with  sunshine, 
I  have  so  long  been  starved  without  it.  Light 
your  cigarette  with  my  silly  silly  letter,  mon 
beau  soleil,  it  is  the  wisest  use  you  can  make 
of  it,  if  even  in  that  very  distant  form  the  word 
wise  can  be  written  near  it.  Oh  Sonnenschein  ! 
Oh  Sonnenschein  !  A  inardi. 

P.S. — I  forgot  to  say  that  I  am  going  to  the 
country. 


70  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  lxi 

LXI 

Saturday^  igth  March  1843. 

There  are  letters  and  letters,  as  I  suppose 
there  are  varying  distinctions  between  fools  as 
a  class  and  philosophers  as  a  class.  Having 
sent  you  my  last  epistle  in  the  guise  of  the 
most  infantile  of  weak  little  black  and  white 
fools,  I  will  try  to-day  to  despatch  my  thoughts 
by  an  old  philosopher  gray  and  hoary  with 
wisdom.  Wisdom  shall  look  from  his  eyes  and 
his  wrinkled  forehead,  in  his  bushy  brows  and 
snowy  locks,  and  shall  run  down  his  venerable 
beard  as  the  oil  ran  down  Aaron's  in  the  Bible 
story.  By  the  way,  when  in  England  did  you 
ever  hear  that  story  sung  as  a  sacred  anthem  ? 
I  have,  once,  but  I  am  not  particularly  keen 
about  doing  so  again.  The  oil  ran  down  his 
beard,  ran  down — Aaron — the  oil — it  ran — his 
beard  ran  down — down — down — Aaron-^— down 
— the  oil,  the  oil,  the  oil,  down  Aaron — down 

— down — the  oil  his  beard  ran  down — ran 

God  knows  where  it  finally  did  or  did  not  run, 
or  whether  it  was  the  oil,  or  Aaron,  or  the 
beard  which  eventually  ran  down — down — 
down — .  The  only  comprehensive  impression 
left  upon  my  mind  when  the  anthem  was  over 
was  that  the  beard  and  Aaron  and  the  oil  were 
going  on  in  such  an  extraordinary  and  improper 
manner    and    getting    so    mixed,    that    I    felt 


hJi         PROSPER  M A RI MICE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  71 

decidedly  shy  about  having  anything  to  do  with 
any  of  them. 

I  have  written  to  a  friend  of  mine  in  London 
for  the  rare  and  valuable  book  you  so  much 
wished  for :  if  any  one  can  procure  it  he  will  be 
able  to  do  so  ;  his  own  library  is  one  of  the 
best  in  the  country,  and  he  has  exceptional 
chances  for  picking  up  literary  gems.  If  he  is 
in  town  he  will  answer  at  once,  and  will  also 
begin  his  search  for  the  book  without  loss  of 
time,  but  it  may  be  that  he  is  abroad — he  fre- 
quently goes  away  at  this  season.  However, 
my  letter  is  gone,  is  already  posted,  and  just  so 
soon  as  I  receive  his  answer  I  will  send  it  to 
you.  Let  us  hope  that  it  may  be  favourable 
in  every  way.  You  need  not  be  uneasy  lest 
my  asking  for  the  book  may  cause  astonishment. 
My  book -worm  friend  is  accustomed  to  my 
eccentricities,  and  will  not  give  the  request  a 
second  thought — not  in  the  way  you  fear.  As 
for  the  price,  if  you  propose  paying  such  a  sum 
as  that  I  can  only  say,  "  Rather  you  than  me ! " 
"Me"  would  very  strongly  object,  although  as 
a  rule  I  consider  money  spent  in  books  as  well 
invested. 

Why  oh  why  are  you  so  sad  ?  In  almost 
every  letter  you  tell  me  that  you  are  triste ; 
do  you  think  it  makes  me  gay  to  hear  it  ? 
What  can  I  do  for  you,  what  say  to  you,  in 
what  words  write  to  you,  in  order  to  cure  you 
of  this  mortal   melancholy  ?      I  try  each  mood 


72  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  LXi 

in  turn,  grave  and  gay,  silly  and  serious  ;  I 
rack  my  brain  for  stories  to  make  you  laugh, 
for  something  to  bring  a  smile  to  your  grave  lips, 
because  always  in  my  ear  are  ringing  the  words 
you  write  so  often — triste,  tres  triste,  bien  triste. 
How  can  I  cheer  your  sadness  ?  Only  tell  me, 
and  you  shall  be  triste  no  more.  Will  it  please 
you  to  hear  that  for  Monday,  the  whole  of 
Monday,  a  long  long  happy  Monday,  I  can  be 
yours  ?  I  shall  be  free  for  the  entire  day,  and 
will  use  my  freedom  in  making  myself  your 
captive,  "  An  it  please  you,  my  lord."  Does  it 
please  you,  will  you  order  sunshine,  and  a  gentle 
western  breeze,  and  a  happiness  which  nothing 
can  disturb,  and  a  great  great  love  for  me,  and 
a  cheerful  salon  and  cosy  little  dejeuner  a  la 
foiLvchette  at  the  Pavilion  Henri  Quatre,  near 
the  great  trees  at  St.  Germain  where  Louise  de 
la  Valliere  loved  the  king,  and  where  the 
magnificent  Louis  XIV  loved  Louise?  Will 
you  order  all  this  and  have  it  ready  for  Monday, 
blessed  Monday  the  2ist  day  of  March  in  the 
year  of  grace  1 843  ? 

Now  have  I  not  kept  my  promise  and  sent 
you  a  letter  freighted  with  wisdom,  for  do  I  not 
know  that  the  wisdom  you  like  best  in  me,  and 
find  the  wisest,  is  the  folly  of  love  ?  Ah  yes,  I 
know,  and  I  love  you  for  your  wise  folly,  as 
you  love  me  in  return  for  my  foolish  wisdom. 


LXli        PROSPER  M^RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE '  73 

LXII 

Monday  Evening^  7.1st  March  1843. 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  girl 
called  Mary  who  had  a  friend  named  Grace. 
The  friend  was  older  than  Mary,  and  in  the 
child's  affection  for  her  was  mingled  a  little 
fear  and  not  a  little  humbleness.  One  day 
Mary's  mother  said  to  her,  "  If  you  are  very 
good  for  a  whole  week,  study  your  lessons  well, 
and  are  careful  with  your  copy,  and  neither 
make  a  noise  nor  ask  tiresome  questions,  you 
shall  go  and  spend  Saturday  with  Aunt  Marion 
at  Clover  Patch,  if  the  weather  is  quite  fair, 
and  take  Gracie  with  you." 

This  announcement  to  the  child  meant  just 
bliss,  absolute  bliss,  nothing  more  and  nothing 
less.  Aunt  Marion  was  the  dearest,  kindest 
old  maid  aunt  in  the  world  ;  Clover  Patch  was 
the  dearest  old  house  in  existence,  and  had  the 
most  beautiful  gardens  and  clover  fields,  filled 
with  fruit  and  flowers.  Oh  how  weary  long 
the  week  seemed  to  little  Mary.  She  studied 
her  lessons  until  her  little  brain  was  dizzy,  and 
wrote  out  her  copy  over  and  over  again,  very 
careful  to  make  big  round  letters,  but  afraid  to 
ask  what  the  words  meant  because  mother 
might  call  it  a  tiresome  question. 

Nothing  new  under  the  sun. 

It   looked   very   much    like  a  lie,  and   Mary 


74  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  lxii 

hardly  liked  to  write  it  over  so  often.  Her 
doll  was  new,  with  its  pretty  pink  cheeks  and 
round  little  body,  so  new  that  Mary  was  afraid 
to  take  it  to  Clover  Patch  with  her,  much  as 
she  wanted  to  show  it  to  Aunt  Marion.  You 
see  the  paint  had  not  rubbed  off  yet,  and  no 
holes  had  been  stuck  in  the  body,  so  Mary 
could  not  know  that  it  was  stuffed  with  saw- 
dust. Several  things  she  could  think  of  were 
new,  but  she  would  not  run  any  risk,  so  held 
her  peace.  Every  night  she  prayed  with  a 
beautiful  faith  that  it  might  be  "  quite  fair 
weather"  on  Saturday,  and  she  was  painfully 
quiet  that  no  sound  of  hers  might  imperil  the 
success  of  the  trip  to  Clover  Patch.  The  day 
came,  warm  and  bright ;  Grace  was  sweet  and 
gracious  ;  Aunt  Marion  her  dear  old  self ;  fruit, 
flowers,  fresh  country  milk,  everything  was 
delicious.  The  children  played  in  the  new- 
mown  hay,  gathered  buttercups,  and  shouted 
with  delight  when  the  little  round  gold  spot 
was  reflected  in  their  dimpled  chins,  tossed 
cowslip  balls  and  twined  daisy  chains,  fed  the 
downy  yellow  chickens,  and  gazed  entranced 
at  the  new  litter  ot  pigs,  the  funny  round  pinky 
white  and  black  things  with  sweet  little  curled-up 
tails.  A  very  long,  long  happy  day  at  Clover 
Patch  was  bliss  indeed.  But  the  children  grew 
tired  at  last,  and  a  little  cross,  and  almost 
before  they  knew  it  an  awful  ending  had  come 
to   their   happiness.       Clouds  were  coming  up 


LXTi        PROSPER  MARIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  75 

quickly,  and  Mary  grew  frightened — she  was 
terribly  afraid  of  a  thunderstorm.  Grace  was 
not  at  all  sympathetic,  but  a  good  deal  superior 
to  her  younger  friend,  and  she  only  laughed  at 
little  Mary's  troubled  face.  "  Oh,  Gracie,  let  us 
go  into  the  house  quickly,  it  is  getting  so 
dark." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  a  coward." 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  a  coward,  but  look,  quick,  oh, 
there's  the  thunder." 

"  Well,  if  you're  not  a  coward,  stay  here." 

"  But  oh,  Gracie  —  the  lightning,  please 
come  in." 

"  Now  you  are  going  to  cry.  I  wouldn't  be 
a  coward  and  a  cry-baby  both." 

The  words  were  bad  enough,  they  made 
Mary's  little  heart  swell  with  indignation,  but 
the  laugh — the  heartless  mocking  laugh  so  hard 
and  scornful  with  the  cruel  scorn  of  childhood — 
was  more  than  little  Mary's  heart  could  bear. 
She  clenched  her  fist  tight  with  sudden  passion, 
her  small  face  was  very  white. 

"And  now  you  are  a  little  spitfire,"  Grace 
said  suddenly,  before  her  companion  had  time 
to  speak. 

"  And  you — you  are  a  liar,  and  liars  go  to 
hell,  and  the  devil  burns  them  ! " 

The  words  almost  choked  her,  but  she  had 
said  them,  those  awful  words  which  made  her 
tremble  when  mother  told  her  about  them  on 
Sunday  nights.     And  said  them  to  Grace,  her 


76  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  LXii 

friend  that  she  loved.-  Oh  what  an  ending  to 
the  blissful  summer  day ! 

Do  you  believe  in  a  soul  ?  Is  it  an  embryo, 
a  spiritual  essence,  a  germ  ?  Shall  everything 
that  we  have  now,  all  that  we  are,  all  the  fears 
and  loves  and  hatreds  that  we  feel  in  the  flesh, 
fall  away  and  leave  us  only  a  seed,  and  shall 
one  seed  know  another  seed  for  the  old  love  it 
loved  on  earth  when  both  are  changed  and 
glorified  ?  Or  does  it  go  and  dwell  in  a  star, 
this  spirit  which  they  say  wings  its  flight  above 
and  is  not  buried  in  the  ground  with  the  poor 
body  it  has  lived  with  always  but  which  it 
leaves  behind  to  worms  ?  And  do  the  stars 
recognise  each  other? 

Some  wise  ones  tell  us  we  shall  meet  again 
and  be  the  same  ;  same  hands,  same  feet,  a  mouth 
to  eat  and  kiss,  "raised  incorruptible" — that  is 
the  phrase.  In  which  do  you  believe?  Tell 
me. 

My  heart  and  I  are  very  tired  to-night,  we 
have  puzzled  so  long  over  old  things  and  new. 
But  there  is  nothing  new,  nothing  absolutely 
new  can  be,  because  the  days  of  miracles  are 
over,  and  although  the  world  still  has  its  full 
complement  of  fools,  they  are  nineteenth  cen- 
tury fools  who  do  not  believe  in  miracles.  It 
is,  however,  given  to  some  silvery  tongues  to  tell 
old  truths  so  cunningly,  and  to  turn  their  old 
dyed  garments  so  cleverly,  that  even  the  fools 
are  taken  in.       It   strikes  me  that  we  grow  a 


LXiv        PROSPER  M&RIMJ^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  77 

little   too    analytical    and    metaphysical    to    be 
quite  amusing.      Good-night. 


LXIII 

Saturday^  lo  A.M.,  30/;^  March. 
It   must   be  for  Monday  from  two  to    five, 
to-day  I  cannot  possibly  leave. 

'  LXIV 

Friday  Mornings  Ztk  Apt'il. 

Only  a  short  time  since  I  wrote  to  you  that 
the  time  of  miracles  was  past,  and  lo,  one  has 
happened  !  Is  that  a  proper  term  to  apply  to 
a  miracle  ?  I  am  unaccustomed  to  such  things. 
Do  they  happen,  or  take  place,  or  merely  exist  ? 
they  are  certainly  puzzling.  On  Monday,  for 
to-morrow  I  cannot  come,  I  will  explain  the 
miracle,  and  you  shall  tell  me  how  to  under- 
stand it.  Now  do  remember  this  ;  so  often 
when  we  meet  we  quite  forget,  at  least  I  do, 
the  things  I  mean  to  tell  you,  for  instance,  you 
never  said  whether  you  liked  my  little  essay  on 
Wilhelm  Meister,  and  I  wrote  it  more  for  your 
opinion  than  for  anything  else.  Do  not  spoil 
the  coming  Monday  as  you  did  the  last,  it  really 
is  too  stupid  for  us  to  quarrel  as  we  do,  even 
the  "  making  up  "  does  not  really  make  up  for 
what  we  each  time  lose   and    suffer.     When  I 


78  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  Lxvi 

am  gone  you  will  regret  it  all,  and  I  probably 
shall  regret  it  still  more.  Let  us  be  more 
sensible. 

LXV 

Paris,  Tuesday,  1 2th  April. 

Ah,  that  was  a  happy  day,  with  no  draw- 
back, if  only  your  poor  eyes  did  not  suffer  frorft 
that  wretched  coiirant  d'air.  I  scarcely  dare 
write  lest  some  word  or  phrase  of  mine  may 
spoil  the  "afterglow,"  which  I  know  cannot 
last  long,  but  which  I  would  hold  undisturbed 
in  its  perfect  beauty  until  the  last  tint  steals 
away  ;  even  then  it  will  always  have  a  dear 
corner  in  my  memory,  a  place  to  itself  in  my 
gallery  of  mind  pictures,  a  little  quiet  place 
where  the  brilliancy  of  the  other  paintings  will 
not  clash  or  be  too  strong  for  the  soft  tones  and 
dreamy  tenderness  of  this. 

At  dinner  last  night  some  one  spoke  of 
Catullus  and  his  works,  but  I  did  not  own  to 
having  read  them.  A  discussion  arose  as  to 
the  precise  date  at  which  women's  influence  in 
the  world  began,  and  the  various  opinions 
amused  me.     Tell  me  yours. 

LXVI 

Paris,  2d  May. 

I  wore  the  ivy  in  my  hair  to-night  when  I 
dined  with  the  Comtesse  de  B ,  going  after- 


Lxviii     PROSPER  M^RIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  79 

wards  to  see  the  feu  d' artifice.  It  suddenly 
struck  me  in  the  middle  of  dinner  that  they 
might  compare  me  to  a  ruin  in  consequence  of 
my  decorations,  and  I  was  quite  uncomfortable  ; 

it  would  be  exactly  like  M.  N ,  who  was 

present,  to  do  this.  Here  is  a  little  comparison 
for  you,  a  little  conundrum  for  you  to  find  an 
answer  to  by  the  time  we  meet,  or  if  you  are 
very  industrious  you  may  discover  it  before  that 
and  write  me  the  answer. 


LXVII 
(Letter  missing) 

LXVIII 

Paris,  i^^th  Jime  1843. 

I  think  I  cannot  bear  it  much  longer,  this 
incessant  quarrelling  when  we  meet,  and  your 
unkindness  during  the  short  time  that  you  are 
with  me.  Why  not  let  it  all  end  ?  it  would  be 
better  for  both  of  us.  I  do  not  love  you  less 
when  I  write  these  words  ;  if  you  could  know 
the  sadness  which  they  echo  in  my  heart  you 
would  believe  this.  No,  I  think  I  love  you 
more,  but  I  cannot  understand  you.  As  you 
have  often  said,  our  natures  must  be  very 
different,  entirely  different ;  if  so,  what  is  this 
curious  bond  between  them  ?     To  me  you  seem 


8o  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  lxix 

possessed  with  some  strange  restlessness  and 
morbid  melancholy  which  utterly  spoils  your 
life,  and  in  return  you  never  see  me  without 
overwhelming  me  with  reproaches,  if  not  for 
one  thing,  for  another.  I  tell  you  I  cannot, 
will  not,  bear  it  longer.  If  you  love  me,  then  in 
God's  name  cease  tormenting  me  as  well  as 
yourself  with  these  wretched  doubts  and  ques- 
tionings and  complaints.  I  have  been  ill, 
seriously  ill,  and  there  is  nothing  to  account 
for  my  illness  save  the  misery  of  this  apparently 
hopeless  state  of  things  existing  between  us. 
You  have  made  me  weep  bitter  tears  of  alternate 
self-reproach  and  indignation,  and  finally  of 
complete  miserable  bewilderment  as  to  this  un- 
happy condition  of  affairs.  Believe  me,  tears 
like  these  are  not  good  to  mingle  with  love, 
they  are  too  bitter,  too  scorching,  they  blister 
love's  wings  and  fall  too  heavily  on  love's  heart. 
I  feel  worn  out  with  a  dreary  sort  of  hopeless- 
ness ;  if  you  know  a  cure  for  pain  like  this  send 
it  to  me  quickly. 


LXIX 

Paris,  Saturday^  6  p.m.,  2^,01  June. 
One  line  before  I  have  to  dress  for  a  large 

dinner  at  Madame  de  G 's.     Although   I 

said  good-bye  to  you  less  than  an  hour  ago,  I 


Lxxi       PROSPER  M&RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  8i 

cannot  refrain  from  writing  to  tell  you  that  a 
happy  calm  which  seems-  to  penetrate  my  whole 
being  seems  also  to  have  wiped  out  all  remem- 
brance of  the  misery  and  unhappiness  which  has 
overwhelmed  me  lately.  Why  cannot  it  always 
be  so,  or  would  life  perhaps  be  then  too  blessed, 
too  wholly  happy  for  it  to  be  life  ?  I  know 
that  you  are  free  to-night,  will  you  not  write  to 
me,  that  the  first  words  my  eyes  fall  upon 
to-morrow  shall  prove  that  to-day  has  not  been 
a  dream  ?  Yes,  write  to  me.  I  have  tiot  taken 
cold. 


LXX 

^th  July. 

Let  me  dream — Let  me  dream. 


LXXI 

Paris,  i^ihjuly. 
When  I  remember  how  short  the  time  now 
is  before  you  must  leave  and  all  our  happy 
days  be  over,  I  can  scarce  write  for  the  grief 
that  comes  over  me.  In  losing  you  I  shall  lose 
my  other  better  self,  and  must  wander  on  as 
aimlessly  as  those  tortured  ones  in  Dante's  hell, 
who  have  lost  their  mates  and  can  know  peace 
never  again.      Will  you  think  of  me  when  you 


82  AJV  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  Lxxii 

have  gone,  think  kindly  and  never  bitterly?  If 
I  have  hurt  you  I  have  hurt  myself  far  more, 
so  let  that  make  amends. 

I  must  soon  decide  where  my  summer  is  to 
be  spent ;  all  my  plans  have  been  in  abeyance 
lately,  it  was  so  fair  to  dream  and  idly  drift 
from  day  to  day  without  any  fixed  plan  or 
purpose.  But  all  dreaming  must,  I  suppose, 
one  day  end.  And  the  end  should  be  good, 
peaceful,  and  convenable.  Before  all  things,  no 
regrets,  or  reproaches,  or  vain  looking  back  ; 
no  futile  wishing  that  things  had  been  other 
than  they  were  and  are.  So  to  part  were  well, 
perhaps  better  than  to  dream  on  indefinitely. 
When  a  break  comes  naturally  and  calmly,  a 
journey,  a  friendly  parting,  is  it  not  wiser  to 
accept  quietly  this  solution,  to  go  our  several 
ways  in  life  in  peaceable  commonplace  fashion, 
rather  than  to  wait  for  an  end  which  may  be 
tragic,  or  worse  still,  a  wretched,  played-out 
comedy  ?  Think  of  this,  my  friend,  and  tell 
me  the  result  of  your  thoughts. 


LXXII 

Thursday,  2%th  July. 
Your    letter    received    last   evening   was    no 
answer   to    mine  of  the    25  th.      Will  you   not 
write  ?      I  wished  to  speak  to  you  on  Monday, 
but  could  not. 


Lxxiv     PROSPER  MARIM^E'S'INCONNUE'  83 


LXXIII 

Paris, 
Thursday  Evenings  id  August  1843. 

It  was  an  odd  interview  ;  I  am  not  quite  sure 
to-night  whether  I  am  myself,  or  some  one  else, 
you  will  probably  suggest  that  I  am  neither, 
only  a  statue  made  of  a  material  a  trifle  colder 
than  marble.  In  truth,  you  would  not  be  far 
wrong  this  tirqe,  for  I  feel  frozen  ;  not  externally, 
I  took  no  cold  and  hope  you  did  not,  but  all 
my  ideas  seem  congealed.  You  are  writing  to 
me,  I  know,  perhaps  at  this  very  moment. 
What  will  you  say,  I  wonder,  how  will  you 
speak  of  our  curious  interview?  I  think  I 
know  what  one  part  of  your  letter  will  be,  one 
idea  that  in  some  form  or  other  you  will  suggest. 
It  is  this,  that  we  put  away  the  past,  and  begin 
anew.  You  will  express  it  more  poetically,  in 
choicer  language,  but  that  will  be  the  sense 
underlying  your  words,  at  least  I  think  so.  I 
shall  be  very  curious  to  see  if  I  have  judged 
rightly. 


LXXIV 

4M  August  1843. 
Yes,    it    was     a    good     "  recommencement," 
whether    absolutely    wise    or    not    is    another 
question  which  we  had  better  not  discuss.      But 


84  A2Sr  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  lxxvii 

I  was  very  happy,  happy  for  one  long  golden 
afternoon,  and  that  at  least  is  something,  no 
small  thing  either  to  save  and  hold  and  keep  as 
fact  and  memory.     Adieu,  et  au  revoir. 


LXXV 

Paris,  6th  August. 
T  cannot  let  you  go  without  one  line,  al- 
though it  may  be  the  last  I  write,  for  your 
words  wounded  me  too  cruelly  yesterday  easily 
to  forget  them.  They  cannot,  however,  prevent 
my  wishing  you  bon  voyage. 


LXXVI 

(Letter  missing) 


LXXVII 

Versailles, 
nth  August  1843. 

The  whole  morning  has  been  spent  by  me 
under  our  favourite  trees  trying  by  force  of 
reading  German  to  make  the  long  hours  pass 
more  quickly.  They  are  very  long  these  hours 
passed  without  you.  The  weather  is  lovely, 
that  at  least  is  one  satisfactory  bit  in  the  gener- 
ally muddled  state  of  my  affairs.  I  can  walk 
all  day  if  I   like,  and  be  troubled  neither  by 


Lxxvii    PROSPER  MERIM^E'S  'INCONNUE'  85 

undue  heat  nor  rain.    Very  few  people  are  here  ; 

the  two  pretty  children  of  Lady  C- have 

been  left  in  charge  of  their  nurse  while  her 
ladyship  disports  herself  and  her  toilettes  at 
Trouville  ;  old  M.  de  L still  pursues  his  re- 
searches in  the  gallery  for  his  Notes  on  Painting 
(what  an  awful  book  it  will  be  when  finished !)  ; 
and  an  American  family,  who  afford  me  much 
amusement,  are  about  the  only  humans  I  see. 
This  Transatlantic  party  are  delicious,  each  one 
perfect  in  his  or  her  particular  way.  They 
have  actually  crossed  that  terrible  Atlantic 
Ocean,  and  made  a  journey  that  would  stagger 
most  people,  for  the  purpose  of  educating  and 
marrying  their  daughter  in  foreign  lands.  I 
must  begin  my  description  with  the  daughter — 
she  is  so  much  the  most  important  member. 
She  is  lovely — a  charming  figure,  complexion 
like  smooth  young  rose  leaves,  wavy  brown 
hair,  good  eyes,  and  teeth  quite  perfect  But 
her  voice,  Man  Dieu !  her  voice !  Do  they 
never  teach  their  children  to  modulate  their 
voices  in  that  country  ?  It  is  something  quite 
too  awful.  This  girl  comes  into  the  salle  d, 
manger  dressed  delightfully,  a  trifle  much,  and 
with  diamonds  in  her  ears  that  in  England 
would  be  worn  at  a  Court  ball ;  but  she  is  so 
pretty  that  she  almost  produces  the  effect  of  a 
picture,  so  the  dressing,  even  in  its  inappropri- 
ateness,  would  not  matter  so  much  if  only  she 
would  remain  a  picture  and  not  open  her  lips. 


86  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  lxx vii 

But  that  shrill,  unmusical  voice,  high  over  every 
other  sound  in  the  room,  is  quite  terrible.  No 
matter  who  is  talking,  even  the  rest  of  her  own 
party,  she  still  screams  on  like  a  pretty  young 
peacock  until  one's  ears  tingle.  The  plump 
mamma,  wearing  more  diamonds,  does  not 
seem  to  mind  this  in  the  least,  or  in  fact  any- 
thing else  which  her  daughter  does  or  does  not 
do.  She  is  quite  placid  under  all  circumstances, 
and  plainly  shows  that  she  is  a  generation 
behind  the  girl  in  education  and  culture.  The 
papa  is  going  to  encounter  the  Atlantic  again, 
and  be  absent  from  his  family  for  months,  that 
he  may  make  more  dollars  for  his  family  to 
spend,  and  be  able  to  send  supplies  for  the 
trousseau  of  Mademoiselle,  for  the  pretty  daughter 
is  engaged,  the  fiance  being  no  less  a  personage 

than  little  Prince  P ,  that  small  attache  of 

the  Sardinian  Legation  in  London  whom  I 
always  thought  the  most  forlorn,  moth-eaten 
human  specimen  I  ever  met.  He  is  crible  de 
dettes,  and  they  say  scrofulous,  but  his  couronne 
ferm^e,  like  charity,  covers  a  multitude  of  sins. 
They  gladly  pay  his  debts,  these  good  demo- 
cratic Americans,  with  their  hardly -earned 
dollars,  and  still  more  gladly  bestow  upon  him 
their  sweet  young  daughter,  blooming  with 
health  and  beauty.  The  sight  of  it  all  is  rather 
disgusting  ;  one  is  apt  to  hope  better  things 
from  a  new  country  claiming  to  be  free  from 
old-world  follies. 


Lxxix     PROSPER  ME  RIM  RE'S  '  INCONNUE  '  87 

The  owl's  feather  came  safely,  but  was  not 
needed  for  the  purpose  you  mention.  Even 
without  it  under  my  pillow  as  a  dream  talis- 
man, my  sleeping  as  well  as  waking  thoughts 
are  seldom  given  to  any  one  but  yourself. 
Hardly  a  safe  employment  for  them,  I  know, 
and  each  day  I  tell  myself  that  the  time  has 
come  to  seek  something  else  as  mental  food, 
while  evening  returns  only  to  find  the  old 
thoughts  occupied  as  usual.  Adieu !  I  await 
your  letters  with  impatience. 


LXXVIII 

(Letter  missing) 


LXXIX 

September  1843. 
Ah,  why  did  we  meet  again  !  Why  disturb 
a  memory  grown  calm  and  peaceful  by  an 
actuality  gloomy,  stormy,  mutually  reproachful ! 
What  is  this  strange,  tormenting,  mysterious 
affinity  which  seems  to  bind  us  together  when 
reason,  simple  common  sense  even,  so  plainly 
says  that  there  is  something  so  radically  differ- 
ent in  our  natures  that  union  of  spirit  is  a 
simple  impossibility  ?  This  sort  of  thing,  this 
meeting  and  fruitless  regretting,  is  silly  childish- 
ness, it  has  not  even  the  dignity  of  madness  to 


88  A^f  A UTHOR 'S  LO  VE  Lxxx 

excuse  it.  Come,  in  common  sense,  let  us  end 
the  whole  matter.  You  are  leaving  Paris 
almost  immediately  ;  good,  then  do  not  let  us 
meet  again  !  I  will  wish  you  bon  voyage  as  a 
friend.  We  will  write  to  each  other  sometimes, 
forget  each  other  gradually,  and  all  is  said. 
This  is  the  only  sensible  thing  we  can  do  ;  let 
us  be  sensible,  and  let  this  be  the  end. 


LXXX 

Paris,  SepteDiher. 

I  am  glad  that  you  did  not  accept  my  letter 
and  its  suggestions  as  final,  I  am  glad  that  we 
did  meet  before  you  left,  and  that  we  were 
sensible  enough  to  part  friends — the  best  and 
dearest  of  friends.  After  all  that  we  have  been 
to  each  other,  any  other  course  than  this  would, 
I  think,  hardly  have  proved  us  to  possess  much 
spirit,  to  say  nothing  of  plain  common  sense. 

To  -  morrow  I  leave  Paris  and  go  to  Hann- 
over for  a  time  to  revisit  my  old  haunts,  but 
how  long  I  shall  remain  I  do  not  yet  know. 
I  send  this  to  Avignon,  and  shall  hope  for  a 
long  letter  from  there.  Send  me  some  archi- 
tectural sketches  ;  you  must  remember  our  dis- 
cussion about  them. 


Lxxxi     PROSPER  MRRIMEE'S    INCONNVE  ' 


LXXXl 

Hannover, 
i()th  September  1843. 

Me  void  once  more  in  the  old  familiar 
German  town  where  long  ago  I  struggled  with 
the  terrible  German  language.  I  never  told 
you,  I  think,  of  my  first  winter  here,  but  it  was 
amusing  enough,  or  rather  it  is  amusing  to  look 
back  upon  ;  at  the  time  there  were  decided 
drawbacks  to  merriment  My  guardian  was 
not  sorry  when  I  petitioned  to  be  sent  to 
Germany  in  order  to  learn  the  language  on  the 
spot  (for  well  I  knew  that  any  attempt  on  my 
part  to  learn  it  elsewhere  would  be  a  conspicu- 
ous failure ! ),  and  he  promptly  packed  me  off 
under  charge  of  some  old  ladies  travelling  in 
this  direction.  I  was  deposited  like  a  parcel — 
"  this  side  up  with  care,"  and  **  fragile,"  marked 
in  the  corners.  My  new  abode  was  the  sunny 
little  room  looking  out  upon  the  Georg  Strasse, 
where,  for  the  sake  of  old  associations,  I  am 
to-day  writing  to  you.  Remember  at  that  time 
I  was  innocent  of  the  smallest  knowledge  of 
the  language  which  more  than  once  lately  I 
have  employed  to  tell  you  of  the  state  of  my 
affections.  Ich  Hebe  dich  meant  nothing  to  me 
then  ;  I  could  not  have  said  it  or  written  it 
had  the  refusal  to  do  so  been  extermination. 
Frau   Finanzrathin   Muthmann  was  the  unpro- 


90  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  lxxxi 

nounceable  title  I  was  told  to  give  the  fat, 
shapeless  woman  who  was  lady  of  the  house, 
and  who,  to  add  to  her  slender  widow's  income, 
consented  to  take  young  women  like  myself 
anxious  to  learn  the  language  of  the  Fatherland. 
Glibly  enough  can  I  say  her  name  now,  but 
then  it  was  not  so  easy.  There  were  two 
daughters — a  pretty  blue-eyed  Fraulein  Marie, 
about  twenty,  and  a  child  with  long  fair  braids 
of  wonderful  hair  in  a  marvellous  state  of  tidi- 
ness, and  one  son,  a  lout  called  Heinrich. 
The  name  has  always  been  odious  to  me  since, 
for  its  owner  fell  in  love  with  me,  and  my  first 
experience  of  German  beer  and  German  Schwdr- 
merei  combined  did  not  capture  my  fancy. 
He  was  always  drinking  beer,  that  odious 
Heinrich,  even  when  indulging  in  the  wildest 
metaphors  to  express  his  passion  for  myself. 
Had  I  engaged  an  apartment  in  the  Tower  of 
Babel  during  its  building  I  should  have  been 
equally  enlightened  in  regard  to  what  was 
going  on  around  me  as  I  was  for  the  first  week 
or  so  in  this  little  German  household  to  which 
I  must  not  forget  to  add  one  other  pupil,  but 
one  who  was  so  far  advanced  in  German  that 
she  scorned  any  other  tongue  ;  and  a  cousin  of 
Fraulein  Marie — a  tall  Prussian  officer  who  I 
am  convinced  kept  his  ramrod  down  his  back 
when  it  was  not  needed  for  active  service. 
Never  shall  I  forget  how  I  disgraced  myself 
the  first  time  this  gallant  soldier  appeared  upon 


Lxxxi      PROSPER  MERIMJ&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  91 

the  scene.  I  had  never  seen  the  military 
social  salute — the  heels  clicked  sharply  to- 
gether ;  the  quick  downward  jerk  of  the  head, 
and  instant  raising  of  it  again  as  though  a 
snap-hinge  united  the  skull  of  the  magnificent 
animal  to  his  spine ;  the  spasmodic  motion 
from  one  person  to  another,  for  to  each  in  turn 
must  the  whole  performance  be  strictly  gone 
through  with,  from  the  first  stiff  taking  of 
position  to  the  very  end  of  the  hinge  movement. 
Oh  how  I  laughed  and  almost  suffocated  in  my 
vain  efforts  to  prevent  the  entire  company  from 
knowing  what  so  convulsed  me !  Later  we 
became  very  good  friends — the  Herr  Lieutenant 
and  I  ;  he  did  not  schwdrm  for  me  as  much  as 
Heinrich  did,  and  in  consequence  I  found  him 
more  agreeable.  It  was  a  pleasant  life  enough  ; 
I  worked  hard  at  mastering  the  language,  and 
enjoyed  the  walks  to  beautiful  Herrenhausen, 
and  the  afternoon  concerts  under  the  trees,  and 
the  early  evenings  at  theatre  or  opera.  We 
had  seats  in  the  Fremden  loge  near  the  stage 
for  the  better  hearing  of  the  German  words, 
and  the  first  tenor,  from  whom  three  times  a 
week  I  took  singing  lessons,  made  eyes  at  me 
in  the  sentimental  parts  of  his  role.  It  was  a 
new  sensation  to  be  made  love  to  so  very 
publicly  and  yet  with  no  one  understanding 
but  myself,  and  I  found  it  quite  romantic. 
Yes,  it  was  a  decidedly  pleasant  life,  even  the 
Wiirst  tasted  good,  and   I   learned  to  drink  my 


92  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ixxxiii 

little  flasche  of  Tivoli  beer  quite  comfortably 
before  going  to  bed  on  theatre  nights.  We 
were  all  tucked  up  and  asleep  about  ten  o'clock, 
the  plays  beginning  there  before  six,  and  not 
having  you  to  dream  about  in  those  early 
days  I  slept  soundly,  and  was  all  ready  for  the 
day's  work  when  I  awoke.  A  simple,  pleasant 
life,  and  I  like  to  recall  it  as  I  sit  in  my  old 
room  to-day  and  feel  myself  so  changed. 

I  liked  your  description  of  Avignon.  The 
palace  of  the  Popes  I  remember  well,  and  a 
little  shrine  on  the  old  bridge  struck  me  as  so 
pretty  and  picturesque  that  I  made  a  sketch  of 
it  which  I  still  have.  I  saw  a  good  deal,  I  think, 
in  those  few  months  when  I  was  abroad,  but 
I  long  to  see  more,  that  is  the  worst  of  travel- 
ling ;  the  cry  is  always  more,  more,  and  one  is 
never  satisfied. 

Write  to  me  of  all  your  wanderings  ;  I  can 
read  as  many  pages  as  you  will  send,  and  not 
tire  of  so  doing.      Adieu. 

LXXXII 

(Letter  missing) 

LXXXIII 

Paris,  i^fth  November  xZ/i,'}^. 
Arrived    here    last   evening.       To    see    you 
again — can  it  be  possible  !      I  shall  be  free  all 
day  to-morrow. 


Lxxxvii    PROSPER  MARIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '        93 

LXXXIV 
(Letter  missing) 

LXXXV 

Paris,  i  3M  December, 
We  are  absolute  fools,  no  other  word  will 
do.  To  part  friends,  to  write  each  to  other  as 
friends,  to  have  reached  a  wise  calm  phase  of 
existence,  to  count  upon  meeting  again  as 
friends  with  all  save  happy  memories  of  the  past 
blotted  out,  and  to  make  an  absurd  fiasco  of 
everything  as  we  did  to-day !  The  contempt  I 
feel  for  myself  passes  words,  and  not  to  put  it 
more  strongly,  my  respect  for  you  is  decidedly 
less.  I  write  no  more  after  signing  myself,  as 
I  now  do  for  the  last  time,  M. 

LXXXVI 

(Letter  missing) 

LXXXVII 

Friday^  \\th  January  1844. 
No,    you    received    no    letter    from    me    on 
Tuesday,  for  the  simple  reason  that  I  did  not 


94  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  lxxxix 

write  one,  nor  did  I  this  year  send  you  a  New 
Year  Greeting  as  I  did  last.  If  you  have  kept 
my  letters — a  foolish  thing  to  do  by  the  way — 
read  that  one  of  last  New  Year's  Day  over  again  ; 
if  I  remember  rightly  it  contains  sufficient 
tenderness  to  content  a  man  for  a  long  time. 
I  am  rather  ill,  and  have  been  taking  care  of 
my  aunt,  who  is  with  me,  and  who  is  more  ill 
still.  This  must  be  my  excuse  for  a  short  and 
absolutely  uninteresting  letter,  a  thing  of  ink 
and  paper  not  deserving  the  name  of  letter,  but 
all  that  I  propose  sending  you,  therefore  you 
must,  I  fear,  make  the  best  you  can  of  it. 

If  you  have  time   for  such  trivialities  make 
me  a  sketch  of  our  woods. 


LXXXVIII 

(Letter  missing) 

LXXXIX 

Paris,  Sunday^  nth  March, 

After  all,  I  find  that  it  will  be  absolutely 
impossible  for  me  to  meet  you  to-morrow.  I 
am  sorry,  but  I  really  cannot  arrange  the  walk, 
a  bientdf. 


PROSPER  M&RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  95 


xc 

Thursday  Mornings  \^th  March. 

I  am  so  excited  I  can  hardly  wait  to  hear 
the  result.  Of  course  you  will  be  elected,  of 
that  there  can  be  no  doubt.  When  I  next  see 
you  you  will  be  enrolled  among  the  Immortals, 
and  I  shall  have  a  grave  Academician  all  for 
myself!     Dieii  votis  garde. 


XCI 

Friday,  1 6th  March  1844. 

Laugh  at  me  if  you  will,  but  I  could  not 
help  it,  I  cried  when  it  was  all  over  and  you 
were  really  nominated !  I  know  it  was  the 
acme  of  silliness,  but  I  had  worked  myself  up 
to  a  tremendous  pitch  of  excitement ;  I  do  not 
think  I  could  have  stood  your  losing  the  nomina- 
tion, for  in  spite  of  all  you  say  I  feel  sure  that 
in  your  heart  you  cared  about  it.  You  must 
be  so  busy  I  will  not  take  up  a  moment  longer 
of  your  time,  only  send  warmest  congratulations, 
best  wishes,  love.     Adieu,  mon  vMrable  I 


XCII 
(Letter  missing) 


96  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE 


XCIII 


Of  course  I  saw  what  you  sent  me  "  en  plelne 
Academie"  and  naturally  my  first  impulse  was 
to  screen  myself  behind  the  friendly  hat  of  my 
next  neighbour,  in  blank  terror  lest  she  and  all 
-the  world  beside  should  see  it  too,  and  know 
that  it  was  meant  for  me  !  How  could  you  do 
such  a  dangerous  and  compromising  thing?  and 
how  sweet  of  you  to  think  of  me  at  such  a 
moment  and  to  do  it ! 

Your  speech  did  not  seem  in  the  least  too 
long,  and  I  enjoyed  it  immensely.  But  I  will 
write  no  more  ;  we  are  to  meet  soon,  in  less  than 
an  hour  now,  and  I  can  say  all  the  much  that 
still  remains  to  be  said  in  person.  Had  I 
known  it  was  so  late  I  should  not  have  written, 
this  will  hardly  reach  you  before  it  is  time  for 
you  to  come  for  me.     A  vous  de  coeur. 


XCIV 

Paris,  27//;  April  1844. 
Your  last  letter  was  so  humble,  you  your- 
self so  lamblike  and  mild  during  our  last  walk, 
that  the  soft  and  unusual  glow  of  your  complai- 
sance still  floats  around  me  like  a  halo.  My 
friends  do  not  know  me  jn  this  effulgent,  radiant 
state,  and  I  assure  you   my  success  at  dinners 


xciv         PROSPER  MMIMEE'S  "  INCONNUE  '  97 

and  balls  is  something  quite  phenomenal.  Does 
this  announcement  enrage  you,  or  are  you  still 
like  the  tenderest  morsel  of  spring  mutton  ? 
As  I  passed  the  butchers'  shops  to-day  and  saw- 
paper  roses  pinned  on  their  prize  sheep,  I  was 
strongly  tempted  to  stop  and  buy  some  to  send 
to  you  at  Strasburg. 

I  am  just  so  happy  that  it  is  a  pleasure 
merely  to  live.  Nothing  particular  has  happened 
to  produce  this  exaggerated  state  of  feeling,  but 
it  is  in  the  sweet  "  youngness  "  of  the  year,  the 
tenderness  of  the  first  spring  foliage,  the  tiny  little 
leaves  uncurling  so  gently,  the  life  in  the  balmy 
air  like  a  pure  wine  exhilarating  but  not  grossly 
intoxicating,  the  butterfly  children  with  innocent 
eyes  toddling  along  the  Champs  Elysees,  the 
sky  all  dotted  with  fleecy  rainbow-tinted  clouds, 
studding  the  heavens  with  sapphires  and  opals 
which  flash  in  the  mellow  sunshine.  Only  to 
live  on  such  a  day  as  this  is  pure  happiness, 
but  to  live  with  the  knowledge  that  another 
heart  beats  with  you  and  for  you,  another  warm, 
living,  loving  human  being  thinks  of  and  cares 
for  you,  ah,  voila  happiness  doubled  and  in- 
tensified. Can  you  wonder  that  I  am  gay  when 
I  feel  and  know  all  this,  and  when  I  am  in  this 
loveliest  city  by  the  Seine,  this  brilliant  flashing 
"Paris?  Come  back  to  me  here,  and  I  promise 
that  our  thread  of  life  shall  be  taken  up  again 
where  it  was  dropped,  as  though  no  break  or 
pause  of  any  kind  had  come  in  the  weaving  of 
H 


98  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  xcvi 

it.      Come  back  to  me,  but  quickly,  while  the 
sunshine  lasts. 


XCV 

Paris, 
Tuesday^  ^oth  July. 

How  long  it  is  since  I  have  written  to  you, 
but  meeting  every  day  was  better,  was  it  not  ? 
better  than  the  best  of  letters.  Now  I  suppose 
that  little  interlude  is  over,  and  that  we  both 
must  "  to  life  again,"  an  outside,  other  people's 
life,  a  noisy,  bustling,  ordinary  life.  Well, 
dreaming  for  ever  would,  I  suppose,  end  in 
softening  of  the  brain,  and  we  still  have  heads, 
although  for  so  long  now  hearts  have  been 
trumps.  I  feel  that  I  must  make  an  effort,  and 
seriously  pull  myself  together,  must  go  away 
somewhere  and  show  the  world,  my  portion  of 
it  at  least,  that  I  still  do  live,  and  am  tolerably 
sane.  How  much  longer  shall  you  be  in  Paris  ? 
I  ought  to  go  to  the  country  almost  imme- 
diately, but  I  promise  to  see  you  again  first. 


XCVI 

Paris,  i  8//^  August. 
You  see  I  am  still  here  in  spite  of  your  sar- 
castic  suggestion    the   other   day,   that   it   was 
quite  possible  for  me  to  take  "  French  leave." 


xcviii     PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  99 

Let  me  know  to-morrow  the  date  when  you 
must  leave  Paris,  that  I  may  make  my  arrange- 
ments accordingly. 


XCVII 
(Letter  missing) 


XCVIII 


Paris, 


5M  September  1844. 

After  changing  all  my  plans  and  remaining 
on  here  simply  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you 
again,  I  find  our  interview  of  the  day  before 
yesterday,  and  your  letter  of  Monday  3d,  just 
punishment  for  the  betise  I  have  evidently  com- 
mitted in  doing  so.  You  bid  me  an  eternal 
adieu,  ''^pendant  que  vous  avez  du  courageP 
Merci.  You  suggest  that  we  can  love  each 
other  only  at  a  distance,  that  perhaps  when  we 
have  both  reached  a  comfortable  old  age  we 
may  meet  again  with  pleasure,  but  that  while 
waiting  for  this  millennium  you  beg  I  will  in 
both  happiness  and  unhappiness  remember  you. 
You  also  say  that  no  anger  remains  with  you, 
only  a  great  sadness.  You  still  further  add 
(and  the  sentence  makes  me  think  you  must  be 
dying)  that  you  hope  now  I  will  pardon  you. 

For    a    lately   nominated    Academician    the 


loo  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  Ci 

composition  as  a  whole  of  this  most  extra- 
ordinary letter  strikes  me  as  a  trifle  weak,  if 
you  do  not  mind  my  saying  so.  As  an  ex- 
ample of  French  style  it  may  be  all  right,  but 
in  crude  English  it  produces  upon  my  mind  the 
idea  of  a  mental  feebleness  which  is  simply 
incredible,  when  I  remember  who  it  is  that 
writes  it.  Have  you  already  softening  of  the 
brain  ?  I  feared  it  in  my  own  case,  should  our 
idle  dreaming  be  indefinitely  prolonged,  but  I 
did  not  seriously  anticipate  it  as  the  end  of 
your  career. 

Wake  up,  take  a  tonic,  cut  your  finger,  do 
anything  to  regain  your  scattered  senses,  and 
meet  me  at  two  o'clock  to-morrow,  Thursday, 
6th  September ;  if  you  do  not  do  this  it  will 
indeed  be  adieu  with  a  vengeance. 


XCIX 
(Letter  missing) 

C 

(Letter  missing) 

CI 


14M  September  1844. 

From   Poitiers   you  write  me    that    my  last 
letter  reached   you,  but   you  make  no  sort  of 


CI  PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '         loi 

allusion  to  two  previous  ones  in  which  were 
one  or  two  questions  which,  if  you  remember,  I 
also  asked  you  at  ouit  j-lc^st '  raeeting*^  m  Paris, 
when  after  all  we  dicf'fiot  "have,  that  final  tragic 
parting,  did  not  say  tl>at  eternal '  fcdi^iir  which 
you  were  to  express  while  you  still  had  du 
courage !  Oh,  how  infantile  we  are  to  quarrel 
as  we  do,  kiss  and  make  friends,  and  go  on 
writing  as  calmly  as  possible  after  our  little 
tempests  in  a  teapot.  You  have  a  way  of  not 
answering  questions  which  is  very  reprehensible, 
but  it  is  no  use  for  me  to  waste  time  in  repeat- 
ing them,  for  they  were  rather  frivolous,  and 
anything  less  frivolous  than  I  feel  to-day  could 
hardly  be  imagined. 

There  is  a  man  here  who  interests  me 
strangely,  a  man  who  is  in  great  mental  trouble, 
and  whom  I  have  met  in  a  most  extraordinary 
way.  I  do  not  yet  quite  understand  how  it 
came  about ;  how  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of 
England  should  take  me  of  all  people  into  his 
confidence  ;  how  he  ever  came  to  tell  me  of  his 
doubts  and  his  terrible  experience.  It  was  one 
of  those  strange  confessions  which  are  some- 
times made  by  the  most  reticent  men  to  the 
most  unlikely  of  listeners.  A  mutual  friend 
mentioned  his  name  to  me  one  day  as  we  all 
stood  at  the  hotel  door  together,  he  merely 
bowed,  and  a  moment  later  moved  away,  and  I 
did  not  give  him  a  second  thought.  The 
following    afternoon  late,   I    found    myself   far 


I02  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  Ci 

away  from  our  inn,  and  a  sudden  mountain 
storm  came  up  before  I  could  find  shelter  of 
any  kindr'  It  was  'not  only  an  unpleasant  but 
a  dangerous  position,  for  the  lightning  plays 
odd*' tricks  'In  'tHes^Jwild'  rocky  districts,  and  is 
no  respecter  of  persons.  "  I  confess  to  having 
been  a  good  deal  frightened,  and  as  I  looked 
helplessly  about  the  sight  of  the  tall  Anglican 
priest  I  had  met  the  day  before  was  a  very 
welcome  one,  he  was  at  least  a  human  being 
and  a  man,  and  might  know  of  some  hut  where 
we  could  find  temporary  safety.  As  it  happened 
he  did,  and  for  more  than  an  hour  we  were 
together  in  an  empty  cabin  on  the  hillside,  used 
by  the  goat-herds  in  the  summer-time.  The 
storm  increased,  and  the  danger  of  it  was  very 
evident.  How  it  came  about,  I  repeat,  I  do  not 
know,  but  the  conversation  turned  upon  fear, 
trust  in  God,  and  faith.  Shall  I  ever  forget 
that  man's  stricken,  haggard  face  as  he  told  me 
his  story  !  Told  me,  while  the  lightning  played 
about  us  in  forked  tongues  of  flame,  of  his 
simple,  childlike,  unquestioning  belief  in  God 
and  Christ,  in  angels  and  in  an  old-fashioned 
cloven-footed  devil.  How  he  had  preached  the 
word,  and  taught  plain  Christian  Bible  truths 
such  as  he  himself  had  learned  at  his  mother's 
knee.  How,  little  by  little,  doubts  came,  ques- 
tionings arose,  faith  became  clouded,  how  the 
wonderful  story  of  Christianity  which  he  had 
reverently  received,  and  in  which  he  had  rever- 


CI  PROSPER  M&RIM^E'S  '  INCONNUE'         103 

ently  instructed  others,  took  gradually  but 
surely  the  hues  of  a  lovely  fairy  tale,  which 
man's  intellect  could  only  smile  at,  not  seriously 
accept.  How  the  trouble  grew  greater  and 
books  and  study  only  made  it  worse,  until  in 
order  to  remain  an  honest  man  he  had  fled  from 
church  and  people,  taking  his  nominal  holiday 
for  a  season,  knowing  well  in  his  heart  that  it 
was  a  farewell  for  all  time.  As  the  storm 
increased  the  man's  excitement  grew ;  I  think 
he  forgot  that  I  was  there,  and  talked  only  to 
himself  or  the  spirits  he  recognised  in  the  storm 
shrieks.  Oh,  it  was  awful,  the  great  agony  of 
a  soul  in  doubt.  Never  can  I  forget  the  un- 
utterable horror  of  it.  The  tortured  pain,  the 
seething  agony,  the  writhing  despair  of  that 
human  soul !  It  was  an  infinity  of  anguish 
compared  to  which  the  physical  crushing  of 
bone  or  rending  of  flesh  or  muscle  can  be 
nothing.  It  was  sport  for  devils,  rare  mirth  for 
the  arch-fiend  himself  bored  with  the  puny 
impotence  of  man  in  fashioning  evil.  Rich 
rare  sport  for  the  old  pagan  to  watch  a  nine- 
teenth-century conscience  so  saturated  with 
intellectual  culture  that  it  had  thrown  old 
beliefs  to  the  winds,  and  denied  as  fables  God 
and  Satan  equally.  To  be  doubted  must  con- 
vulse the  power  of  evil  with  devilish  delight, 
and  I  can  fancy  him  evolving  out  of  his  own 
inner  devil's -doubted  consciousness  a  rare  re- 
finement of  revenge  for  the  presumption  of  this 


1 04  AN  A UTHOk 'S  LOVE  CI 

clarified  nineteenth-century  intellect,  even  while 
the  anguished  soul  told  of  his  doubts  and  of  the 
peace  gone  from  him  for  ever.  The  storm 
cleared  slightly,  and  the  lightning  ceased.  The 
man  before  me  was  still  looking  out  over  the 
mountains  with  wide  unseeing  eyes,  unconscious, 
I  was  convinced,  that  any  one  was  near  him. 
I  hated  to  leave  him  alone  with  his  great  agony, 
yet  I  dreaded  more  to  have  him  come  out  of 
that  odd  trance -like  state,  and  perhaps  re- 
member that  he  had  spoken  words  before  a 
stranger  which  he  would  rather  have  died  than 
uttered.  So  very  quietly  I  stole  away  and  left 
him  alone  with  his  tortured  soul.  It  was  the 
kindest  thing  that  I  could  do.  He  did  not 
appear  at  dinner  that  night,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing very  early  he  was  gone. 

No,  I  do  not  feel  frivolous  to-day.  At  this 
moment  I  question  whether  I  shall  ever  feel  so 
again. 

This  story  will  not  appeal  to  you,  and  I 
much  wonder  why  I  tell  it,  unless  it  is  that  the 
habit  of  writing  to  you  all  that  happens  in  my 
life  has  grown  upon  me.  You  need  not  give 
me  your  views  of  the  incident  or  refer  to  it. 
I  know  beforehand  all  that  you  can  say,  it  will 
only  be  a  repetition  of  your  former  words,  "  Do 
you  believe  in  the  devil  ?  The  whole  question 
lies  in  this.  If  he  alarms  you,  provide  against 
his  carrying  you  off,"  and  so  on  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter. 


cii  PROSPER  M£RIM£:E'S  'INCONNUE '  105 

Think  no  more  of  my  story. 

The  forests  here  are  Hke  old  friends,  because 
they  remind  me  of  those  near  Paris,  and  of  our 
walks  together  in  them.  When  shall  we  meet 
there  ?  when  do  you  return  ?  I  wish  that  you 
were  here  to-day,  I  would  gladly  forget  in  your 
wit,  and  your  mockery  of  all  things  serious,  the 
solemnness  of  that  man's  soul-torture,  but  I  said 
we  were  to  allude  to  that  no  more.  I  could 
love  you  to-day  as  madly  as  you,  even  you, 
could  wish,  why  are  you  not  here  ?  You  would 
no  longer  jeer  at  me  for  being  a  marble  statue, 
formal,  cold,  forbidding  ;  it  would  be  the  old 
cry  over  again  only  more  intensified — "  I  love 
you  !  Love  me  back!"  To-night  I  hunger  and 
thirst  for  you,  I  love  you  with  every  fibre  of 
my  being,  madly,  unfearingly,  with  a  passionate 
recklessness  I  have  never  felt  before  I  Ah, 
thank  God  that  you  are  not  here  ! 


CII 

D ,  nth  November. 

I  have  been  able  to  get  out  of  the  trip  to 
the  Italian  Lakes,  therefore  shall  be  in  Paris 
about  the  first  week  in  December.  Seinpre  a 
te. 


io6  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cm 

cm 

Paris,  d^th  December  1844. 

There  is  such  a  passion  of  antagonism  in 
my  soul  to-day  that  I  know  well  the  last  thing 
I  should  do  is  to  write,  yet  I  do  write.  I  was 
very  angry  with  you  when  we  parted.  You  are 
entity  to  a  degree  absolutely  absurd,  and  with 
it  all  you  are  very  "  hard."  Do  you  not  know 
this  ?  can  you  not  yourself  feel  it,  without  my 
being  forced  to  tell  you  ?  I  have  been  tres 
souffrante^  and  I  know  that  I  am  irritable  to  a 
degree.  Everything  seems  going  wrong,  and 
the  edges  of  my  life  are  surely  more  frayed  and 
ragged  than  they  have  any  right  to  be,  more 
wofuUy  uneven  than  the  edges  of  any  one  else's 
life.  Why  cannot  we  have  things  when  the 
longing  for  them  is  upon  us  ?  Before  we  eat 
our  hearts  out  with  aching  vain  desire  ?  Before 
all  the  gilt  is  worn  off  the  gingerbread  and  the 
cake  itself  has  grown  stale  and  musty?  Why 
not !  oh  why  not !  You  may  think  me  un- 
grateful to  write  this,  when  one  thing  is  mine 
which  I  should  prize,  and  I  do  prize  above  all 
others,  and  when  one  infinite  happiness  has 
come  to  me  in  that  we  have  met  again.  And 
you  will  be  fairly  right.  I  am  ungrateful,  and  as 
I  said  before,  am  to-day  frightfully  antagonistic 
towards  men  and  things.  Why  is  it,  I  wonder, 
that   women   often   wish    to    be   men,    but   no 


cv  PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '         107 

mortal  ear  has  yet  listened  to  the  longing  from 
a  masculine  heart  to  be  a  woman  ?  The  Jews 
carry  the  idea  further  still ;  in  the  service  of 
their  synagogues  the  males  chant  in  sententious 
self-satisfaction,  standing  the  while  in  the  main 
body  of  the  building,  "  God,  I  thank  Thee  that 
Thou  hast  not  made  me  a  woman."  Above,  in 
the  gallery  regions,  to  which  the  females  have 
been  banished,  comes  the  response  in  much 
more  humble  tones — "  God,  I  thank  Thee  that 
Thou  hast  made  me  according  to  Thy  will." 
To-day  I  am  not  humble,  I  cannot  echo  any 
such  self-abasing  sentiment,  I  would  be  any- 
things  I  think  rather  than  what  I  am.  The 
flowers  of  life  have  poisoned  petals,  their  per- 
fume is  stifling,  not  exhilarating.  Bref,  I  have 
blue  devils  badly,  so  will  write  no  more. 


CIV 

Paris,  Thursday,  yth  February. 
Let    me    hear    how   the    reception    at    the 
Academy  goes  off,  that  is,  if  you  have  time  to 
send  me  a  line. 


CV 

Thursday  Evening,  yth  February. 
My  warmest  congratulations.      Vous  void  a 
full-fledged   Academician.       I    was   present   at 


io8  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  CVI 

your  reception,  but  did  not  tell  you  beforehand 
that  I  was  going  as  you  had  said  you  would 
be  nervous  if  you  fancied  any  of  your  friends 
to  be  looking  on.  But  it  went  off  charmingly  ; 
of  what  had  you  been  afraid  ?  And  now  for  a 
good  long  walk  with  the  seven-league  boots. 
What  hour  will  suit  you  best  ? 


CVI 

D ,  15M  August  1845. 

I  am  only  just  settled  here,  having  got 
through     my    wanderings    in     Germany    with 

Madame    de    C very   much   later   than   I 

expected  to.  The  old  haunts  are  pleasantly 
familiar  ;  I  am  quite  glad  to  find  myself  amongst 
them  once  more. 

What  is  it  within  us  that  so  quickly  responds 
to  a  real  touch  of  the  pathetic  ?  We  read  a 
book,  not  particularly  well  written,  perhaps 
rather  the  reverse,  and  eminently  stupid.  One 
sentence,  one  small  line  which  comes  unex- 
pectedly in  the  middle  of  a  page,  touches  us  to 
quick  sympathy,  hot  tears  come  to  our  eyes, 
and  an  odd  wedge  is  in  our  throats.  And  it  is 
even  more  marked  in  real  life,  this  prompt  re- 
sponse to  pathos.  I  cried  like  a  baby  this 
afternoon.  A  peasant  girl  in  whom  I  took  a 
good  deal  of  interest  last  summer  married  a 
low  quarrelsome  brute  who  between  drink  and 


ovil        PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '         109 

temper  has  made  her  Hfe  a  misery,  and  more 
than  once  nearly  murdered  her  in  his  fits  of 
drunken  fury.  Now  he  has  done  it  quite, 
killed  her  as  surely  ais  Cain  killed  Abel,  but  she 
by  a  loving  lie  persisted  in  saving  him  from  a 
righteously  deserved  death  by  the  guillotine.  I 
went  to  see  the  poor  thing  this  afternoon,  all 
that  was  left  of  her,  for  she  was  nothing  but  a 
broken  up  mass  of  bones.  "  I  fell  from  the  hay- 
loft, madame,  it  was  so  high  no  one  could  fall 
from  there  and  not  be  crushed,  but  I  do  not 
mind  dying,  Francois  is  so  good  to  me."  Until 
the  very  end  the  poor  pretty  thing  kept  repeat- 
ing this  pitiful  lie  which  was  to  save  her 
husband,  and  she  finally  died  with  it  upon  her 
lips.  Has  she  been  saved  or  damned  by  it  ? 
Who  will  dare  to  say  ? 

Life  and  its  problems  are  too  intricate  for 
me  ;  of  one  thing  only  do  I  seem  to  be  quite 
quite  sure,  I  love  you. 


CVII 

Paris,  2>^  Septe^nber  1845. 
In  the  soft  September  dark  I  have  been 
sitting  thinking  of  you,  and  of  our  speedy 
meeting.  Two  of  my  friends  here  are  ill,  and 
I  have  promised  not  to  go  over  to  England 
without  them.  The  fear  expressed  in  your  last 
letter,  therefore,  is  for  the  present  at  least  un- 


no  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  oviil 

founded  ;  Lady  M will  not  just  yet  have 

the  chance  of  expounding  her  theories  as  to 
"  the  baseness  of  being  in  love,"  and  I  individu- 
ally cannot  become  either  -more  or  less  English 
than  I  already  am  from  contact  with  les 
Anglais.  Whether  I  can  remain  here  until  the 
20th,  the  date  you  mention  as  a  probable  one 
for  your  return,  is  a  question.  I  will  do  my 
best,  of  that  you  may  rest  assured.  Do  take 
care  of  yourself  and  do  not  work  too  hard.  It 
is  all  very  well  to  accomplish  what  you  under- 
take, but  there  are  bounds  to  all  things,  and  I 
fear  you  are  rather  apt  to  overdo  it.  For 
myself,  I  am  splendidly  well  and  the  weather 
is  perfect.  If  only  you  were  here,  what  walks, 
what  talks,  we  might  have.  Do  make  a  speedy 
end  of  all  your  tiresome  old  deputes  and  come 
back.  You  say  you  prefer  the  court  of  a  despot 
to  the  sort  of  existence  you  are  now  leading. 
A  la  bonne  heure^  there  is  nothing  easier  for 
you  to  have.  I  will  be  the  despot  with  all  the 
pleasure  in  the  world  ;  the  court  shall  be  that 
of  love,  and  you  shall  be  prime  minister.  Come 
back,  and  see  if  you  do  not  like  the  post. 


CVIII 

Paris,  \st  November  1845. 
It  is   too  lonely  here  without   you  ;  every- 
thing reminds  me  of  the  "  chill  October,"  which 


cix         PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S  'INCONNUE'         in 

together  we  found  only  too  full  of  delight  by 
day  and  happy  dreams  by  night.  I  am  off  for 
London  to-morrow,  to  pay  my  English  visits 
while  you  are  sunning  yourself  in  Spain  making 
wicked  love  to  dark-eyed  Sefioras.  Write  me 
long  accounts  of  the  country  ;  it  is  one  of  the 
many  desires  of  my  heart  to  see  it.  If  you 
remain  in  the  land  of  bull-fights  and  lace  man- 
tillas through  December,  only  returning  to  Paris 
in  January,  I  should  not  very  much  wonder  if 
you  found  me  there  on  your  return.  The 
Scotch  visits  I  have  given  up  ;  it  is  too  cold  to 
go  so  far  north,,  and  my  English  friends  will 
surely  see  enough  of  me  in  the  space  of  time 
between  now  and  January. 


CIX 

Beechwood  Hall,  Sussex, 
loih  November. 

It  is  certainly  very  nice  to  find  myself  back 
amidst  old  friends  and  old  scenes  after  wander- 
ing so  long,  and  surely  the  English  have  brought 
the  art  of  living  to  a  perfection  unknown  in  any 
other  land.  I  confess  I  take  kindly  to  the 
smoothness  and  polished  culture  of  it  all,  the 
luxurious  homes,  and  well-trained  servants  and 
thoroughly-groomed  horses,  and  the  business  of 
life  reduced  to  a  well -organised  succession  of 
pleasures.       There    are  probably  "  hitches "    of 


112  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cix 

some  sort  somewhere,  but  as  a  mere  guest  at 
delightful  country-houses  one  never  discovers 
them.  It  was  almost  dark  when  I  reached  the 
little  country  station  some  three  miles  from  this 
fascinating  old  place,  but  a  brougham  was  wait- 
ing for  me,  and  a  tall  footman  respectfully 
handed  me  a  warm  cloak  and  rug,  very  welcome 
in  the  chilly  November  dusk.  After  driving 
along  country  roads  past  model  cottages  and 
the  ivy-covered  stone  church,  we  came  to  a  long 
avenue  where  the  great  trees  stood  like  sentinels, 
and  finally  reached  an  open  door  with  a  cheerful 
welcoming  light  streaming  through  it,  and  more 
tall  respectful  servitors  waiting  at  the  steps. 
The  air  of  being  expected  always  gives  one  a 
pleasant  sensation,  no  matter  how  often  it  is 
repeated.  The  first  hall  entered  was  a  toler- 
ably large  square  one,  with  an  organ  standing 
on  one  side,  a  wide  fireplace  opposite,  and  one 
or  two  chairs  and  tables.  A  double  oak  door 
and  heavy  portieres  divide  this  from  the  hall 
proper,  a  huge  apartment  with  two  more  fire- 
places, fur  rugs,  divans,  lounging -chairs,  tall 
plants,  and  a  billiard-table  ;  armour  and  stained 
glass  windows  breaking  the  length  of  the  walls. 
From  this  central  hall  open  innumerable  rooms, 
in  one  of  which  I  found  my  hostess  and  several 
members  of  the  house  party,  around  a  cheery 
tea-table. 

Lady  G is  as  pretty  and  delightful  as 

ever,  he   looks   decidedly  older   than    his    age 


cix         PROSPER  MiRIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  113 

warrants.      The  beautiful  Mrs.  W is  here, 

also  her  husband.  Poor  man,  his  life  is  one 
long  apology  for  the  stupid  airs  she  gives  her- 
self. There  are  one  or  two  stray  men,  an 
attache  of  the  Austrian  Embassy  with  a  very 
fierce  moustache,  a  delightful  man  in  the  Foreign 
Office,  and  last,  not  least,  Mr.  Gladstone.  How 
he  towers  above  other  mortals  !  I  had  never 
met  him,  and  am  now  delighted  at  the  chance, 
whether  he  will  deign  to  speak  to  so  unimport- 
ant an  individual  as  myself  remains  to  be  seen. 
Could  he  only  know  my  immense  admiration 
for  his  mental  qualities  and  the  amount  of 
pleasure  he  would  give  me  by  so  doing,  he 
might  be  persuaded.  Every  one  in  the  country 
is  talking  about  him. 

More  people  are  coming  to-morrow,  amongst 
others,  an  American  woman  who  sings  well. 
Some  of  the  party  seem  to  expect  great  "  sport " 
from  this  particular  guest,  and  I  feel  strongly 
tempted  to  whisper  a  friendly  word  of  warning 
in  her  ear.  But  would  she  accept  it  as  friendly  ? 
On  the  whole,  I  think  the  experiment  too  doubt- 
ful to  risk,  Americans  are  such  an  unknown 
quantity  to  me.  I  feel  sure  that  I  am  going  to 
enjoy  my  visit ;  the  human  elements  are  interest- 
ing, and  there  is  something  wonderfully  attractive 
in  the  combination  of  magnificence  and  comfort, 
stateliness  and  unconventionality,  about  the  life 
led  in  these  grand  old  Tudor  mansions  standing 
in  their  acres  of  sloping  wooded  parks.  Conti- 
I 


14  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE 


nental  life  with  all  its  charm  possesses  nothing 
equivalent  to  it.      From  here  I  expect  to  go  to 

Lord  A 's  in  Kent,  not  far  from  here  ;  I  long 

for  your  letter  from   Madrid,  and  how  I  envy 
you  the  Murillos  !     A  riverderci. 


CX 

Paris,  \%th January  1846. 

Can  there  be  any  being  in  existence  less 
interesting  than  a  woman  with  the  toothache, 
or  anything  on  earth  more  unpleasant  than  the 
toothache  itself?  I  flatter  myself  that  I  pos- 
sess a  fair  amount  of  courage  in  most  things, 
but  where  a  dentist  and  dentistry  is  concerned, 
I  own  it  frankly,  I  am  found  wanting.  Impos- 
sible for  me  to  venture  out  with  my  tooth  as  it 
now  is,  and  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind  to  let 
a  dentist  see  it. 

How  good  of  you  to  send  me  so  large  a 
donation  for  the  poor  family  I  told  you  of ;  but 
I  should  not  have  said  anything  about  it,  I 
intended  to  help  them  entirely  myself,  and  ought 
not  to  have  troubled  you  in  regard  to  them. 
You  are  too  generous. 


CXI 

Paris,  lothjune. 

Are  you  better  this  morning,  less  cross  than 
you  were  yesterday,  less  dictatorial   and   more 


cxiir       PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'  115 

human  ?  For  your  own  sake  I  hope  so,  as  I 
do  not  propose  seeing  you  for  some  time  to 
come,  it  will  not  make  so  much  difference  to 
me  as  it  must  to  you.  The  books  I  will  send 
a  little  later,  one  of  them  I  lent  to  a  friend  who 
has  not  yet  returned  it,  but  promises  to  do  so 
before  this  afternoon.     What  heavenly  weather. 


CXII 

(Letter  missing) 

CXIII 

Dieppe,  5M  August  1846. 
In  an  old  worm-eaten  book  which  I  once 
found  in  a  garret,  its  title-page  gone  and  the  name 
of  its  author  unknown,  I  read  the  following 
legend:  "The  world  was  very  new, but  few  people 
as  yet  were  in  it,  and  those  had  not  learned 
how  much  of  evil  and  sorrow  and  unhappiness 
earth  can  hold  ;  they  still  kept  some  of  the 
freshness  and  glad  newness  of  life,  too  much, 
so  Satan  thought  as  he  left  his  own  kingdom 
and  came  to  earth  for  a  morning  stroll.  So 
few  souls  had  as  yet  come  down  to  hell  that  he 
had  plenty  of  time  to  spare,  and  was  of  far  too 
restless  and  energetic  a  disposition  to  waste  the 
moments  in  idleness.  As  he  wandered  on  in 
the  world  above,  his  ill  temper  increased  ;  every- 


ii6  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxiii 

thin^^  looked  so  fresh  and  sweet,  the  few  mortals 
he  came  across  were  so  simple,  so  kind  to  each 
other,  so  innocently  happy.  *  This  will  never 
do/  Satan  finally  exclaimed,  'this  is  entirely 
wrong.  I  shall  be  defrauded  of  half  my  popula- 
tion if  this  sort  of  thing  goes  on  ;  hell  will 
be  horribly  dreary  unless  I  can  get  some  of 
these  nice  smiling  people  down  there.'  It  was 
in  a  garden  that  Satan  made  these  observations, 
and  he  sat  down  to  ponder  seriously  and  work 
out  some  little  problem  for  stirring  up  these 
placid  mortals  that  they  might  the  more  quickly 
come  to  grief  on  earth,  and  change  their 
quarters  to  his  domain  below.  Now,  as  a  rule, 
Satan  did  not  think  much  of  gardens,  although 
he  had  a  rather  pleasant  recollection  of  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  where  his  first  venture  in  tempt- 
ing a  woman  had  been  tolerably  successful 
But  flowers  he  despised.  The  very  name  For- 
get-me-not absolutely  nauseated  him  ;  why  not 
call  it  constancy  at  once — a  word  he  hated  ; 
the  passion-flower  held  that  within  its  purple 
heart  which  Satan  did  not  care  to  see,  a 
cross  and  nails  positively  made  him  shudder. 
The  violet  meant  humbleness,  and  the  lily  of 
the  valley  modesty,  the  dark-eyed  pansy  deep 
remembrance — pah  !  the  names  disgusted  him  ; 
how  silly  those  people  were  to  like  such  things. 
But  stop  !  none  of  these  flowers  just  mentioned 
seemed  to  be  as  attractive  to  the  men  and 
women    or   even    the   children    whom    he   was 


CXI II       PROSPER  MARIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '         117 

watching  in  the  garden  as  still  another.  What 
was  this  sweet  fair  thing  they  all  seemed  to 
carry,  or  to  wear,  or  to  play  with,  this  proud 
imperial  flower  growing  in  such  luxuriant  pro- 
fusion, tinted  with  every  shade  from  deep  deep 
red  to  the  softest  flush  of  pink,  or  golden  yellow 
to  palest  cream  and  snowy  white  ?  The  rose, 
the  royal  rose.  Men  toyed  lightly  with  the 
roses,  women  clasped  them  tenderly  to  their 
breasts,  children  kissed  them  and  stroked  their 
velvet  leaves.  A  light  like  flame  leaped  into 
Satan's  eyes,  a  fierce  lurid  light  so  scorching  in 
its  power  that  men  and  women  said  suddenly 
in  surprise,  *  How  warm  it  is,  how  sultry  the 
day  has  turned,  and  so  quickly  too.'  And  the 
children  languidly  stopped  playing,  and  all  the 
roses  seemed  to  droop.  Satan  left  the  garden, 
and  wasted  no  more  time  on  earth  ;  he  had 
plenty  of  work  to  do  down  below.  Going  into 
his  well-fitted  laboratory  he  looked  with  pardon- 
able pride  upon  the  rows  of  bottles  and  jars 
ranged  upon  shelves,  the  while  carefully  select- 
ing one  here  and  there,  and  placing  all  those 
chosen  together  on  one  separate  shelf.  Then 
when  he  had  enough,  he  complacently  read  the 
labels  of  those  set  apart :  Rapturous  Joy ; 
Recklessness  ;  Human  Tears  ;  Heart's  Blood  ; 
Mad  Delight ;  Satiety ;  Contempt ;  Peaceful- 
ness  ;  Hope  ;  Faith  ;  Despair  ;  Fool's  Paradise  ; 
Pride  ;  Self-abasement ;  Distrust ;  Agony. 
A  smile  of  grim  satisfaction  lighted  Satan's 


ii8  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxiii 

dark  clever  face.  He  picked  out  an  empty 
jar  larger  than  the  others,  took  off  the  top  and 
placed  it  beside  him,  ready ;  then  he  got  a 
large  bowl,  a  spoon,  and  a  ladle  ;  then  carefully 
he  poured  a  certain  quantity  from  each  bottle, 
not  measuring  them,  but  guessing  pretty  accu- 
rately just  what  proportion  of  each  was  needed 
for  the  hell's  broth  he  meant  to  brew  ;  then 
with  his  spoon  he  mixed  them  all  together  in 
the  bowl,  and  with  the  ladle  dipped  out  the 
thick  blood -red  liquid,  pouring  it  into  the 
waiting  jar.  After  carefully  covering  this,  he 
labelled  it  in  large  letters — LOVE,  put  back 
the  various  bottles,  chose  out  of  a  drawer  three 
or  four  paint-brushes  of  different  sizes,  and  was 
about  to  leave  the  laboratory  when  a  sudden 
thought  struck  him.  He  laughed  heartily, 
'  Jove,  to  think  that  I  had  almost  forgotten  the 
perfume.  This  pretty  scientific  mixture  will 
deepen  the  colours  but  kill  the  scent,  which  is 
of  celestial  manufacture,  not  intended  to  stand 
much  handling  from  hell.  I  must  dust  a  per- 
fume over  the  roses  after  I  have  painted  them, 
so  sweet  that  it  will  deceive  the  most  learned 
botanist,  then  the  work  will  be  complete,  and 
thousands  of  men  and  women  will  come  down 
to  me.'  Satan  at  this  added  to  the  jar  and 
the  paint-brushes  a  package  of  fine  gold-dust 
powder,  and  left  his  laboratory,  locking  the 
door  behind  him.  His  preparations  had  taken 
him  longer  than  he  had  expected,  and  he  had 


cxin       PROSPER  M^RIMM'S'INCONNUE'         119 

not  much  time  to  reach  earth  again  if  he  would 
get  there  at  the  only  moment  when  it  would 
be  possible  for  him  to  paint  the  roses  success- 
fully. This  he  knew  would  have  to  be  done 
as  evening  was  falling  and  the  flowers  were 
tired  and  thirsty  from  the  day's  heat.  Just  at 
that  hour  they  would  drink  the  sweet  fiery 
liquid  with  eagerness,  but  if  the  dew  of  heaven 
once  fell  and  they  drank  that  instead,  it  would 
be  useless  offering  them  the  devil  broth.  So 
Satan  hurried  and  reached  the  garden  just  in 
time.  The  red  roses  drank  thirstily  of  the 
sparkling  liquid  he  offered,  and  their  colour 
deepened  to  a  dusky  bloody  tint  royal  in  its 
beauty.  The  pink  ones  drank  and  flushed  to 
warmer  hues ;  the  yellow  swallowed  hastily, 
while  a  living  gold  seemed  to  come  to  their 
hearts.  Only  the  white  ones  turned  away. 
They  knew  that  at  early  dawn  they  were  to  be 
gathered  for  a  burial ;  that  cold  crossed  feet, 
and  folded  hands,  and  a  pure  face  paler  than 
themselves  were  lying  hushed  and  still,  waiting 
to  be  strewn  with  their  white  faint  fragrance 
before  all  should  be  shut  out  together  from  the 
gay  world  and  the  sunshine.  So  sad  were  the 
white  roses  at  what  the  morning  must  bring 
that  they  turned  away  from  Satan  and  his 
broth,  they  would  wait  for  the  pearly  dew  from 
heaven  ;  it  was  the  last  time  they  could  drink 
it.  Back  he  went  after  this  rebuff  to  the  red 
and  yellow  beauties,  dusting  them  thickly  with 


120  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxiii 

the  powder,  giving  them  all  that  the  white 
roses  had  refused  ;  and  then  with  the  remainder 
of  the  broth  which  the  sad  pale  burial  flowers 
would  not  touch,  he  coloured  the  paint-brushes, 
and  tinted  each  folded  leaf  and  petal,  every 
stem,  and  even  the  thorns.  These  latter 
amused  him  hugely.  *  To  think  that  God  in 
heaven  gives  the  thorns  to  love,  and  leaves  me 
to  colour  it  so  beautifully  and  give  it  this 
bewildering  intoxicating  scent !  His  share  of 
the  gift  will  only  prick  and  give  pain,  mine 
will  bring  wild  delight  and  happiness  to  men 
and  women  at  the  first,  and  bring  men  and 
women  down  to  me  at  the  last.  Ha,  ha,  a 
very  clever  devil  are  you,  Monsieur  Satan  ; 
je  vous  fais  mes  compliments^  " 

The  legend  ended  here,  or  rather  the  book 
was  torn,  and  the  last  leaves  missing,  so  I  could 
read  no  more,  but  I  never  forgot  the  story,  and 
have  often  meant  to  tell  it  to  you.  He  is  a 
clever  devil  Monsieur  Satan,  and  no  mistake. 

Just  as  it  happened  last  year,  I  got  off  so 
late  to  this  place  that  I  much  fear  I  shall  be 
late  in  getting  back  to  Paris.  There  are  many 
pleasant  people  here,  and  I  am  amusing  myself, 
but  I  do  not  forget  to  look  out  for  a  letter 
from  you  when  the  post  comes  in.  When  do 
you  expect  to  return  to  Paris  ?  Take  care  of 
yourself,  and  do  not  gather  too  many  roses. 


cxv         PR  OS  PER  MERIMEE  'S  '  INCONNUE  '  121 

CXIV 
(Letter  missing) 


CXV 

Dieppe,  loth  Aitgtist  1846. 
It  grows  more  and  more  amusing  here,  and 
I  am  interested  in  watching  several  amourettes 
in  varying  stages.  One  has  reached  the  point 
where  the  Divorce  Court  will  be  the  only  pos- 
sible ending ;  another  promises  considerable 
excitement  when  the  expected  sposo  arrives 
upon  the  scene  ;  a  third  already  gives  hope  of 
orange  blossoms  and  marriage  settlements  ;  and 
a  fourth  is  sad.  An  old  story,  horribly  mono- 
tonous, but  dolefully  miserable.  The  wrong 
people  joined  together,  and  the  right  ones  dis- 
covered too  late.  There  will  be  no  esclandre^ 
nothing  will  happen,  only  four  lives  will  be,  or 
rather  are,  blighted.  One  man  will  fly  to 
ambition  for  his  comfort,  another,  eventually, 
to  drink.  One  woman  will  worry  heaven  with 
her  prayers  until  for  very  pity's  sake  heaven  will 
let  her  in  ;  the  other  will  grow  harder  and 
harder,  never  really  sin,  but  do  more  harm  by 
her  cold  goodness  than  it  is  given  most  sinners 
to  accomplish.  I  watch  them  all  in  turn,  as 
the  waves  come  in,  break  on  the  shore,  and  roll 
back  again  to  the  sea,  and   I  decide  that  the 


1 22  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cxvi 

worst  thing  in  life  is  its  frightful  monotony. 
Are  you  in  Paris  ?  Let  me  know,  I  cannot 
get  there  yet.  Would  it  give  you  pleasure  if  I 
could  come  ? 

CXVI 

Dieppe,  \st  September. 

A  new  month  entered  on  to-day  and  I  am 
still  here.  Your  picture  of  Paris  was  dreary,  it 
did  not  tempt  me.  I  think  one  is  almost  more 
delightfully  alone  with  a  person  they  care  for 
when  in  a  crowd  and  a  whirl  than  when  just 
they  two  souls  are  masters  of  the  situation. 
Perhaps  this  subtle  distinction  is  what  keeps  me 
here,  it  is  almost  worthy  of  you.  The  sea 
seems  to  be  sufficient  for  my  every  need  at  this 
particular  moment.  Very  few  people  are  left 
in  the  place,  not  one  who  interests  me.  The 
amourettes  and  their  respective  dramatis  personcs 
have  taken  themselves  off  to  other  shores,  the 
plage  is  deserted,  the  rooms  at  the  casino 
empty,  even  the  petits  chevaux  do  no  more  racing 
for  reckless  gamblers.  Only  the  sea  and  I  are 
left,  and  we  are  wonderfully  good  friends. 
When  I  am  happy  and  find  life  all  coitleiir  de 
rose,  the  sea  dances  and  sparkles  in  the  sun- 
light and  laughs  with  me  for  joy.  When  I 
would  dream  it  plashes  gently  beside  me  and 
murmurs  a  low  gurgling  music  that  makes  my 
dream  go  smoothly  and  in  tune  ;   and  when   I 


ex VII      PROSPER  mARIMAE'S  "  INCONNUE  '  123 

feel  that  no  gift  in  life  is  so  good  as  strength  to 
do  and  to  dare,  to  battle  and  to  conquer,  the 
sea  leaps  and  roars  and  towers  in  high-crested 
might,  dashing  everything  weak  and  feeble 
aside  as  it  rolls  on  with  a  noise  of  mighty- 
thunder.  No  friend  I  ever  had  is  so  sympa- 
thetic as  the  sea.  Until  we  quarrel,  the  sea 
and  I,  here  I  shall  stop,  so  write  to  me  here,  and 
miss  me,  while  I  love  the  sea. 


CXVII 

,  \oth  September. 

I  had  to  part  from  the  sea  after  all,  a  tele- 
gram having  called  me  to  this  God-forsaken 
place.  Dieu^  how  can  people  exist  en  province  ! 
It  is  awful.  I  trust  devoutly  that  Paris  will 
see  me  again  towards  the  end  of  the  month,  or 
at  the  latest,  in  the  first  week  of  October. 
Then  I  promise  to  be  charming  for  you,  and 
how  good  it  will  seem  to  be  together  again. 
You  say  that  you  are  doing  my  picture,  or 
several  of  them  ;  what  dress  have  you  put  me 
in,  is  it  grande  toilette^  or  neglig^e^  or  what  ?  I 
wonder  if  I  can  support  existence  in  this  awful 
place  until  October.  If  I  can  only  do  so  with- 
out outraging  the  feelings  of  my  rich  godmother, 
who  has  promised  to  leave  me  her  valuable  col- 
lection of  china,  it  is  all  I  ask. 


124  AN  A  UTHOR  'S  LO  VE 


CXVIII 

,  \^th  September, 

Do  not  expect  me  to  write  to  you,  I  have  no 
ideas,  I  feel  suffocated,  and  if  I  stay  here  much 
longer  I  shall  make  violent  love  to  the  ciir^. 
I  should  have  done  so  already,  only  he  squints. 
My  godmother  fancies  that  she  is  consumptive, 
and  dreads  a  breath  of  air  ;  her  dame  de  com- 
pagfiie  is  really  consumptive,  and  speaks  below 
her  breath.  The  china  is  maddeningly  beau- 
tiful, or  I  could  not  endure  being  here  a  day 
longer.  I  never  did  care  very  much  about  my 
godmother  ;  she  is  a  poseuse.  The  poor  lady 
companion  I  am  sorry  for,  only  my  sympathy 
frightens  more  than  it  pleases  her  ;  she  has  had 
so  little  in  her  life,  poor  thing,  that  she  cannot 
understand  it.  The  cur^  comes  to  confess  the 
two  old  souls,  and  looks  as  if  he  would  like  to 
confess  me  too.  Instinct  doubtless  tells  him 
that  he  would  have  the  liveliest  half-hour  he 
has  passed  for  a  long  time  if  he  only  could  do 
so.  Oh,  how  you  must  spoil  me  when  I  come 
to  Paris,  to  make  up  for  the  purgatorial  time  I 
am  having  in  this  musty  old  chateau  with  two 
invalids  and  a  cross-eyed  priest.  If  only  that 
exquisite  china  did  not  fill  the  place  I  should 
take  French  leave. 


cxix       PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '         125 

CXIX 

Paris,  Zth  October  1846. 

Well,  were  you  content  that  I  should  be  so 
glad  to  meet  you  again  ?  You  see  the  starving 
processes  I  had  gone  through  in  purgatory  re- 
acted in  your  favour,  and  so  famished  was  I  for 
a  little  life  which  was  really  worth  the  living 
that  I  could  resist  nothing  you  had  to  offer. 
The  rain  is  coming  down  in  long  straight  lines, 
the  drops  scarcely  separated  by  the  smallest 
space.  I  like  a  perfectly  hopeless  rainy  day 
such  as  this  is,  with  nothing  uncertain  or  doubt- 
ful about  it,  only  a  steady,  deliberate  downpour 
which  says,  "  I  mean  to  rain  until  I  am  tired, 
and  nothing  you  can  do  will  stop  me."  There 
is  something  so  determined  about  such  a  rain 
that  it  commands  one's  admiration  in  spite  of 
one's  self 

That  new  tenor  who  sang  at  the  Italian 
Opera  the  other  night  is  going  to  be  a  success, 
the  papers  are  loud  in  his  praise,  and  prophesy 
wonders  for  him.  Paris  is  filling  up,  and 
quantities  of  English  are  here.  Adieu,  I  am 
tired. 

cxx 

(Letter  missing) 


126  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxxui 

CXXI 

London, 
24M  February  1848. 

I  have  still  no  news  of  my  brother,  and  am 
terribly  anxious.  How  do  you  like  the  new 
order  of  things,  and  will  it  last  ?  I  am  most 
anxious  to  get  to  Paris. 

CXXII 

London,  2d  March. 
Some    friends    are    going    over    to-morrow, 
and  I  have  arranged  to  cross  with  them.      Let 
me  see  you  either  late  to-morrow  evening  or  as 
early  as  you  can  the  next  day. 


CXXIII 

Paris,  March  1848. 
No,  fortunately  I   lost  nothing  by  the  failure 

of  Messrs. ,  but   since   seeing   you    some 

friends  have  almost  persuaded  me  to  leave  Paris 
at  once.  They  think  things  are  growing  more 
serious,  and  that  a  revolution  is  inevitable. 
Would  Paris  be  safe  in  that  case  ?  I  do  not 
want  to  leave  you  here  and  go  away  myself, 
yet  I  can  hardly  give  that  as  my  reason  for 
Do  advise  me. 


cxxvi     PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  127 

CXXIV 

Paris, 
Friday^  loth  March. 

My  sore  throat  grows  worse  in  this  weather, 
and  I  dare  not  go  out.     Do  write  to  me. 


cxxv 

Paris,  12th  May. 
I  am  going  away  for  a  few  days  with  Madame 

de    C ,  who   declares   a    "  milk    cure "   will 

make  my  throat  all  right  in  no  time.  I  wish 
I  could  come  back  and  find  the  political  trouble 
over.     Ati  revoir.' 

CXXVI 

M ,  id^th  May. 

Now  that  I  am  here  I  hourly  wish  myself 
back  in  Paris.  The  times  are  too  stirring  to 
be  away  from  the  centre  of  action.      Madame 

de   C was    right    in    one    thing    however, 

the  milk  cure  has  done  my  throat  good,  I  am 
almost  well.  Let  me  know  what  goes  on  at 
the  Chambre  ;  I  hope  to  see  you  on  Saturday. 


CXXVII 
(Letter  missing) 


128  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxxix 

CXXVIII 

London, 
i(^th  Ju7te  1848. 

It  is  growing  insupportable  to  me,  absence 
from  you,  when  you  write  of  all  this  horrible 
carnage  and  bloodshed  around  you.  I  hear 
cannons  in  my  dreams,  and  fancy  you  shot,  and 
bleeding,  and  dead,  and  surrounded  with  every 
conceivable  horror.  Here  in  London  the  idea 
of  going  to  Paris  at  this  moment  is  a  madness 
not  to  be  explained,  but  I  must  in  some  way 
find  a  plausible  reason  for  doing  that  very  thing 
without  running  the  risk  of  being  sent  to  Bedlam, 
for  see  you  I  must.  Your  letters  are  my  only 
comfort,  but  rather  a  sorry  one,  filled  as  they 
are  with  such  ghastly  details.  Do  be  careful. 
I  am  sure  you  run  a  great  deal  of  unnecessary 
risk. 

CXXIX 

London,  dth  July. 
It  is  more  than  provoking,  but  I  cannot  get 
away  at  present.  The  season  is  a  very  gay 
one,  and  almost  without  knowing  it,  certainly 
without  intending  it,  I  am  knee-deep  in  social 
engagements.  It  is  a  bore,  but  it  cannot  be 
helped.  I  do  not  fancy  the  idea  of  France  as  a 
Republic — all  its  traditions  are  opposed  to  such 
a  form  of  government,  all  its  charm  lies  in  the 


cxxx       PROSPER  MERIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  129 

atmosphere  "brought  by  courts  and  kings  and 
an  ancient  noblesse.  Here  they  speak  openly 
of  the  weakness  and  timid  hesitancy  of  the 
king,  and  think  that  had  he  shown  more  firm- 
ness he  might  have  saved  his  throne.  The 
royal  exiles  will,  I  presume,  eventually  find  a 
home  in  this  tight  little  island,  which  holds  its 
own  through  wars  and  rumours  of  wars,  and 
keeps  its  crown  steady,  no  matter  what  others 
tumble  off  or  are  exchanged  for  the  red  cap 
of  "  Liberty."  Why  could  you  not  come  to 
London  for  a  little  ?  I  am  sure  it  would  amuse 
you,  and  the  change  and  rest  would  do  you 
good. 

CXXX 

London, 
\-^th  July  1848. 

I  am  in  a  perfect  dread  of  what  may  happen 
to-morrow,  please  send  me  a  despatch  or  write 
at  once.  There  is  sure  to  be  an  ^meute^  and  you 
seem  to  have  a  talent  for  being  in  the  thickest 
of  these  sorts  of  entertainments.  I  shall  be 
back  in  six  weeks  at  the  latest ;  let  us  hope  that 
things  will  settle  down  by  that  time,  so  that  we 
may  have  our  walks  in  peace.  What  a  selfish 
sort  of  animal  a  human  being  is  ;  I  fear  that  I 
think  far  more  of  these  walks  of  ours  than  of  a 
country's  good,  inais^  dest  coimne  qa.  As  you 
may  have  guessed,  you  who  know  me  so  well, 
I  am  hugely  dissatisfied  with  myself  to-night ; 
K 


130  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cxxxi 1 1 

you  will  think  me  selfish  not  to  give  up  my 
amusements  here  (and,  frankly,  I  am  enjoying 
myself),  while  I  feel  guilty  for  not  doing  so,  yet 
cannot  find  the  courage  to  break  off  and  come. 
But  let  us  settle  on  the  date  in  about  six  weeks, 
and  with  much  pleasure  do  I  now  accept  your 
invitation  to  breakfast  with  Lady . 


CXXXI 

(Letter  missing) 

CXXXII 

(Letter  missing) 

CXXXIII 

Ferndale  (on  the  Thames), 
\Zth  August  1848. 

London  was  so  hot  and  deserted  that  I  came 

down  here  last  week  with   the   R s,  and 

shall  stop  with  them  until  I  can  get  over  to 
Paris.  It  is  no  use  losing  your  temper  because 
I  do  not  come,  and  there  is  less  use  still  in 
upbraiding  me  as  you  do.  I  am  absolutely 
dependent  upon  some  lawyers  who  are  settling 
up  an  estate,  and  if  you  wish  to  know  what  the 
word  aggravation  really  means,  try  and  hurry  an 
English  lawyer.      All   I   can  do  is   to  pray  for 


cxxxiii    PROSPER  M&RIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  '        131 

patience,  and  row  on  the  river  with  the  best- 
looking  man  I  can  find  to  accompany  me.  And 
the  number  is  not  limited ;  this  pretty  spot  is  near 
enough  to  town  to  allow  detained  unfortunates 
to  run  down  and  dine  and  sleep,  or  to  stay  from 
Saturday  to  Monday,  and  constant  streams  of 

the  kind  come  and  go.      Mrs.   R assures 

me  confidentially  that  it  is  the  only  really 
amusing  life  she  knows  of,  far  and  away  nicer 
than  London  itself ;  and  it  is  not  bad,  provided 
the  right  people  get  together.  If  I  could  see 
you  coming  up  the  lawn,  and  if  after  a  pleasant 
chat  at  tea-time  out  on  the  grass  under  the 
oaks  I  could  row  you  on  the  river  until  so  late 
that  it  would  be  a  scramble  to  dress  for  dinner, 
or  let  you  "  punt "  me  lazily  along  by  the  banks 
while  I  told  you  how  much  I  have  missed  you 
in  spite  of  my  London  gaieties,  I  too  might  find 

this    life    as    amusing    as    Mrs.    R does ; 

but  as  I  cannot  do  all  this,  and  am  on  the  con- 
trary restless  and  anxious  to  get  away  in  spite 
of  your  doubts  upon  the  subject,  I  do  not  enjoy 
the  lazy  placidity  of  shady  lawns  and  continued 
punts  as  I  should  under  different  circumstances. 
You  say  that  you  can  give  me  until  the  25th, 
at  three  o'clock,  and  not  an  hour  longer.  I  feel 
as  if  a  pistol  had  been  put  at  my  head,  a  sort 
of  "  money  or  your  life  "  business,  your  words 
are  so  peremptory.  Could  I  only  communicate 
this  startling  impression  to  the  lawyer,  there 
might    be   some    hope,  but  the  outlook   is   not 


132  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxxxiv 

hopeful,  and  I  feel  about  as  cheerful  as  the  dull, 
brown,  slowly-moving  river  near  which  I  am 
sitting.  There  is  no  sign  of  a  boat,  no  sound 
of  a  human  voice,  not  a  glint  of  sunshine  ;  all 
nature  is  in  a  neutral-tinted  mood  depressing 
to  a  degree,  and  I  feel  more  neutral,  and  more 
dull  and  more  depressed,  than  nature.  I  shall 
reduce  myself  to  tears  if  I  go  on  writing,  I  am 
so  sorry  for  myself,  and  I  think  the  wisest  thing 
I  can  do  is  to  bid  you  good-bye  and  go  and  eat 
some  luncheon. 


CXXXIV 

D ,  list  Aicgtist, 

Very  unexpectedly  I  had  to  come  here  at  a 
moment's  notice,  but  it  brings  me  a  trifle  nearer 
to  Paris,  and  any  change  was  welcome,  so  rest- 
less was  I  growing  by  the  banks  of  that  slow 
brown  river.  I  am  afraid  a  horribly  human 
sentiment  was  at  the  bottom  of  my  restlessness 
while  at  Ferndale,  a  humiliating  sentiment  to 
own  up  to,  but  a  very  real  one.  Everybody 
save  myself  was  enjoying  life  in  his  or  her 
particular  way,  or  in  the  words  of  the  story, 
there  were  such  lots  of  good  times  and  I  was 
not  in  them  !  You  see  that  just  makes  all  the 
difference.  No  one  likes  to  see  people  enjoy 
themselves  better  than  I  do,  always  providing 
that  I  have  a  "  good  time "  too,  and  do  not 
have  to  play  audience  for  the  good   times  of 


cxxxv    PROSPER  MERIAIAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '         133 

other  people.  I  hope  you  appreciate  the 
honesty  of  this  statement,  and  can  read  between 
the  lines  sufficiently  to  see  why  a  good  time  for 
me  at  Ferndale  was  an  impossibility  with  your 
reverend  self  in  Paris.  If  that  is  not  a  dainty- 
way  of  saying  many  things  in  a  comprehensively 
small  space,  then  I  know  not  the  art  of  speech. 
Friday,  or  at  the  latest  Monday,  will  see  me 
in  Paris.      Adieu. 

CXXXV 

Avenue  Josi^phine,  Paris, 
4^k  November  1848. 

How  long  it  seems  since  I  last  took  up  my 
pen  to  write  to  you,  it  is  quite  a  strange  sensa- 
tion, but  if  you  will  be  ill,  and  lose  this  crisp 
autumn  weather  which  was  made  for  walking, 
the  least  I  can  do  is  to  try  and  cheer  you  on 
paper.  I  am  rather  deaf  still  from  the  effects  of 
the  firing,  and  was  at  first  frightened  by  the 
cannons  ;  it  is  not  unlike  living  on  top  of  a 
frolicsome  volcano  to  be  in  Paris  just  now,  and 
I  am  by  no  means  certain  that  I  enjoy  the 
situation. 

Of  all  the  queer  collections  of  odds  and  ends 
of  people,  surely  the  queerest  are  gathered  to- 
gether in  this  house.  Never  before  did  I  stay 
in  an  English  pension  in  Paris,  and  may  I 
never  be  so  weak-minded  as  to  do  it  again. 
The   extraordinary   experiences    these   humans 


134  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxxxv 

have  had,  which  experiences  they  detail  and 
retail  until  one's  ears  ache,  are  only  fit  for  a  new 
edition  of  the  Arabian  Nights.  There  is  an 
English  widow  with  her  two  daughters,  and 
(from  their  own  accounts)  every  princeling  in 
Italy  has  tried  to  marry  one  or  both  of  the 
young  women  during  the  last  winter  which 
they  spent  in  Florence.  There  is  a  pretty 
American  woman,  far  too  young  and  too  pretty 
to  be  left  to  her  own  devices,  who  talks  patheti- 
cally of  how  "  terribly  Charlie  misses  her,"  but 
business  keeps  him  in  New  York,  and  she  feels 
it  her  duty  to  educate  the  child  here  that  he 
may  learn  the  language  correctly.  The  child 
is  a  baby  of  three,  the  veriest  little  Turk  I  ever 
encountered,  and  will  learn  a  good  bit  more 
than  the  correct  pronunciation  of  the  language  if 
his  mamma  will  only  stay  in  Paris  long  enough, 
which  I  fancy  she  will  willingly  do.  There  is  a 
morbid  German  who  gives  lessons  in  Spanish 
(did  you  ever  meet  a  German  who  did  not 
assure  you  that  he  could  instruct  better  in  every 
foreign  language  than  a  native  could  ?),  and  who 
thinks  it  his  duty  to  experience  sensations  be- 
tween times.  His  latest  experiment  in  feeling 
was  going  to  the  Morgue,  and  as  it  had  so 
completely  taken  away  his  own  appetite  that  he 
could  not  eat,  he  generously  proceeded  to  take 
away  ours  by  giving  an  account  of  what  he  had 
seen  lying  on  the  marble  slabs  under  the  water- 
jets.      You  know  it  is  at  dinner-time  only  that 


cxxx  V    PR  OS  PER  M^RIM&E  'S  '  INCONNUE  '  135 

I  see  this  human  menagerie,  and  1  find  once 
a  day  gives  me  quite  as  much  of  them  as  I 
care  about.  The  lady  of  the  house  sits  at  the 
head  of  the  table  in  a  moire  silk  dress,  a  small 
beehive-shaped  cap  on  her  head,  all  white  lace 
and  red  ribbons,  and  wears  gloves  with  the 
fingers  cut  off,  showing  elaborate  rings.  Whether 
she  burned  her  hands  when  she  began  life  as  a 
kitchen-maid,  or  whether  she  imagines  this  to 
be  a  purely  French  fashion  to  be  strictly  followed 
in  France,  I  cannot  say.  She  gives  the  ladies 
around  her  addresses  of  the  best  shops,  i.e.  of 
those  where  she  probably  receives  a  commission 
on  all  purchasers  sent,  and  offers  to  accompany 
any  of  the  men  to  the  Bon  Marche  or  to  buy 
their  winter  flannels  for  them  ;  then  after  dinner 
she  presides  over  a  tea-table  in  the  salon  up- 
stairs, doling  out  weak  tea  at  nine  o'clock  while 
making  conversation.  One  man  is  delightful. 
He  is,  not  to  put  it  too  gently,  the  most  stupend- 
ous liar  I  ever  met,  but  he  lies  so  charmingly, 
and  with  such  abandon  and  cheerful  confidence, 
that  his  conversation  is  most  refreshing.  He 
is  an  American,  a  western  man,  and  extra- 
ordinarily unconventional.  He  has  been  over 
more  ground  in  a  less  space  of  time  than  any 
individual  ever  compassed  before,  at  least  he 
says  so.  What  he  has  not  seen  he  describes 
quite  as  well  as  the  generality  of  people  tell  of 
the  things  their  eyes  have  beheld  in  the  flesh, 
rather  better,  and  skilfully  inserts  racy  anecdotes. 


136  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxxxvii 

or  hairbreadth  escapes,  or  thrilHng  encounters 
with  men  and  beasts,  all  of  which  one  knows 
as  a  fact  to  be  moral  and  physical  impossibilities, 
but  one  enjoys  them  just  as  much  as  if  they 
were  truth,  simply  from  the  manner  of  the 
telling. 

Do  send  me  a  line  saying  that  you  are  better. 
Toujour s  a  vous.  M. 

CXXXVI 

Paris,  30M  May  1850. 
One  word  for  good-bye  although  it  is  so 
short  a  time  since  we  spoke  "  face  to  face." 
Do  not  be  too  radical  the  moment  you  touch 
British  soil,  enjoy  the  good  dinners  they  are 
sure  to  give  you,  and  accept  with  a  good  grace 
the  compliments  they  are  certain  to  pay  you. 
Remember,  when  the  English  say  a  civil  thing 
they  generally  mean  it.  You  rather  frightened 
me  this  morning  with  your  desperate  belief  in 
Liberie,  Egalite,  Fraternite\  and  were  altogether 
in  such  a  combative  state  of  mind  that  you 
struck  me  as  dangerous  ;  write  me  all  your 
impressions.  How  you  will  hate  an  English 
Sunday. 

CXXXVII 

Paris,  \2ih  June. 
Your    letter    from     London    dated    the     ist 
amused  me   immensely.      I  am   glad  you  found 


cxxxviii  PROSPER  M^RIMEE'S  'INCONNUE'       137 

a  vent  for  your  feelings  in  Hampton  Court,  and 
did  not  allow  the  atmosphere  of  the  "  Lord's 
Day  "  to  drive  you  to  suicide.  Much  as  I  like 
London,  I  confess  that  the  Sabbaths  there  are 
trying.  You  do  not  mention  who  were  your 
party,  merely  say  "  we,"  and  a  day  at  Hampton 
Court,  as  I  know  by  experience,  may  be  very 
delightful  or  quite  the  reverse,  according  to 
one's  companions.  I  see  by  the  papers  that  it 
is  cold  in  England,  whereas  here  it  is  lovely,  but 
I  will  not  distract  your  attention  from  cathedrals 
and  architecture  by  rousing  disturbing  remini- 
scences of  nature's  temples,  etc.  etc.  The  more 
closely  you  attend  to  buildings  there,  the  more 
quickly  will  you  be  able  to  return  to  our  woods 
and  forests  here,  and  knowing  this  I  refrain 
from  any  word  that  might  lengthen  your  stay. 
Adieu. 

cxxxvni 

Paris, 

yi  Julv  1850. 

Time  for  only  one  more  letter  to  reach  you 
before  your  return  ;  with  how  much  pleasure  do 
I  write  this.  Your  adventure  with  the  man  at 
Salisbury  Cathedral  to  whom  you  gave  half  a 
crown,  and  who  proved  to  be  the  person  for 
whom  you  had  a  letter  of  introduction,  was 
extremely  funny,  but  why  in  the  name  of  all 
that  was  wonderful  did  he  keep  the  money 
when  the  mistake  was  discovered  ?      His  doing 


138  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxl 

SO  strikes  me  as  more  than  odd.  Well,  no 
more  until  we  meet.  Ah,  how  glad,  how  very 
glad,  I  shall  be  to  see  you  again. 


CXXXIX 

D- 


Saturday^  \2,thjime  185 1. 

I  trust  sincerely  that  your  mother  is  going  on 
well ;  do  not  forget  that  if  there  is  anything  I 
can  send  her,  anything  that  she  may  fancy  which 
I  can  do  for  her,  you  are  to  let  me  know.  You 
must  have  been  terribly  anxious  at  this  last 
attack,  and  I  have  sympathised  with  you  dur- 
ing every  hour.  The  cushion  is  finished  at  last, 
and  I  send  it  off  this  morning.  Rest  your 
tired  head  on  it  sometimes,  and  decipher  the 
symbolical  design  ;  you  will  recognise  the  tree, 
the  branching  shady  oak,  the  figure  in  the 
distance,  and  the  cold  December  sky.  .  Need  I 
point  out  further  the  tale  the  picture  tells,  or 
its  ending? 

CXL 

,  \%th  July  1 85 1. 

How  glad  I  am  that  I  was  able  to  return  to 

Paris  from  D ,  and  to  see  so  much  of  you 

there  during  the  last  few  weeks,  for  now  I  have 
been  summoned  here  ;  the  poor  old  godmother 
is  really  ill  this  time,  and   I   fancy  will  not  be 


CXLI        PROSPER  MARIM^E'S  '  INCONNUE  '  139 

long  in  following  the  departed  dame  de  com- 
pagnie  to  a  better  world.  If  she  lingers  on  I 
must  stay  with  her,  and  cannot  be  in  Paris  to 
meet  you  on  your  return  from  London.  This 
will  not  please  you,  I  know,  but  it  pleases  me 
far  less.  If  you  had  not  been  out  of  town  for 
the  day  I  could  at  least  have  said  good-bye  to 
you  before  leaving,  but  even  that  was  impossible, 
as  you  will  understand.     A  bientot^  I  hope. 


CXLI 

Paris, 
Thursday^  2d  December  1 8  5 1 . 

I  am  terrified,  and  would  give  much  to  be 
away  from  here.  The  people  seem  to  have 
gone  mad,  and  they  say  the  soldiers  are  shoot- 
ing down  the  populace  in  all  directions.      M. 

G will  not  allow  us  to  venture  out,  but  goes 

himself  at  intervals  and  brings  us  news.  I 
suppose  there  will  be  no  chance  of  hearing  from 
you  to-day,  but  if  it  is  possible  let  me  have  a 
line  to-night  to  tell  me  at  least  that  you  are 
safe. 

P.S. — Our  concierge  has  just  been  brought  in 
badly  wounded.      For  God's  sake  be  careful. 


I40  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxuii 

CXLII 

Paris, 
Friday^  3<^  December  1 85 1. 

Your  note  reached  me  safely  late  last  night, 
and  found  me  anxiously  waiting  for  news  of 
you.  What  is  this  about  the  President,  and  is 
it  true  that  Cavaignac  and  Thiers  are  among 
those    arrested  ?      Is   Paris    to   be  placed   in   a 

state  of  siege  ?     I  send  this  by  N ,  and  have 

told  him  to  bring  your  answer  with  him  if  he 
can  find  you.  I  feel  punished  for  my  wish  so 
often  expressed  that  if  anything  exciting 
occurred  here  I  might  be  on  the  spot  to  wit- 
ness it.  I  have  seen  all  that  I  want  to  see  of 
political  agitations,  and  one  coup  d'etat  is  enough 
for  a  lifetime.  It  is  so  much  harder  to  sit 
quietly  at  home  and  only  learn  of  things  from 
a  distance.  I  envy  you  for  being  on  the  spot, 
and  for  being  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  but 
again  I  implore  you,  be  careful. 


CXLIII 

Paris,  2yi  March  1852. 

One  of  the  best,  perhaps  the  very  best  friend 
I  ever  had,  is  dead.  How  simple  the  words  are 
to  write,  how  unutterable  is  the  depth  of  their 
meaning,  the  infinity  of  the  loss  they  repre- 
sent !     The  world  seems  so  dreary  to-night,  life 


ox  Liv      PR  OS  PER  M&RIMI>E  'S  '  INCONNUE  '  141 

looks  such  a  bitter  failure,  and  what  is  yet  to 
come  stretches  out  in  such  gloomy  empty 
nothingness.  Why  is  it  that  those  most  sorely 
needed  here  seem  the  first  to  be  taken  away  ? 
It  made  me  feel  strong  only  to  be  near  this 
friend,  she  played  her  part  in  life  so  bravely 
from  the  moment  life  thrust  a  part  upon  her, 
never  flinching  herself,  no  matter  how  hard  the 
task  set  her  ;  never  failing  others,  no  matter 
how  severe  the  test  demanded  by  friendship. 
No  one  ever  helped  me  as  she  has  helped,  and 
I  am  but  one  of  many  who  could  say  the  same. 
No  one  ever  had  greater  trials,  ay,  and  doubts 
too,  than  she,  yet  before  the  end  came  she  had 
triumphed  over  all.  Time  and  suffering,  suffer- 
ing and  time,  brought  redemption  at  last,  but  it 
came  from  the  conflict  fought  silently  within, 
not  by  loud  outward  wailing  and  moaning. 
My  loss  is  very  great,  and  to-night  I  feel 
stranded.  Even  your  presence,  I  think,  I  can- 
not bear  just  yet — a  soul  must  be  alone  when 
a  great  trial  comes,  the  cup  of  affliction  is  too 
small  for  two  or  more  to  share,  it  is  filled  for 
one  alone.     Adieu. 


CXLIV 

Paris,  12  d  April  1852. 
I   have  followed   the  course  of  this  ^^  affaire 
Libri''  with  keen  interest,  and  my  pride  in  you 


142  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxlvi 

increases  at  every  stage  of  it.  You  do  indeed 
understand  the  meaning  of  the  word  friendship. 
How  staunch  and  loyal  you  are  !  Uninfluenced 
by  any  one's  opinion,  and  guided  only  by  what 
you  feel  to  be  right !  Will  it  help  you  through 
all  the  disagreeable  annoyance  of  the  thing  to 
know  that  I  most  warmly  and  cordially  approve 
every  step  that  you  have  taken,  that  I  sym- 
pathise with  you,  love  you,  and  am  very  proud 
of  you  ? 

CXLV 

Paris,  i-},d  April. 
If  they  really  condemn  you  to  prison  let  me 
know  at  once.  Come  to  see  you  there?  But 
of  course,  arrange  that  I  shall  be  allowed  to  do 
so,  and  let  me  know  if  there  is  anything  that  I 
can  attend  to  for  you  during  all  this  annoying 
business.  It  is  M.  Libri  who  is  to  be  congratu- 
lated upon  having  such  a  friend  as  you.  •  Com- 
mand me  in  any  way,  and  believe  that  you  have 
my  whole  love  and  sympathy. 


CXLVI 

Paris, 
Saturday  Mornings  2d  May. 

My  poor  friend,  your  note  has  this  moment 
reached  me.  What  can  I  say,  what  can  any 
one  say  to  you  at  such   a  moment  ?      I   know 


cxLViii  PROSPER  MERIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  143 

how  deep  your  attachment  was  to  your  mother, 
and  although  her  death  was  not  unexpected, 
does  any  amount  of  preparation  ever  really 
prepare  us  for  these  partings  which  leave  us  so 
poor,  so  beggared  of  love,  so  desolate  in  loneli- 
ness ?  I  think  not.  No  love  on  earth  can  be 
so  pure  as  that  of  a  mother  for  her  child,  and 
its  infinite  tenderness  and  holiness  must,  I 
think,  last  on  and  be  a  blessed  unseen  shield 
around  him  even  after  its  bodily  expression  has 
been  silenced. 

In  the  first  sharpness  of  loss  we  cannot 
realise  that  it  must  be  better  with  those  who 
have  gone  than  had  we  kept  them  here  ;  but 
the  knowledge,  when  love  is  real  as  was  yours, 
must  in  time  bring  a  peace  and  consolation 
with  it.  You  helped  me  so  much  by  your 
friendship  when  a  short  time  since  sorrow  came 
so  sharply  to  me,  let  me  try  and  help  you  now 
when  I  know  how  sore  and  wounded  and  grief- 
laden  your  own  heart  must  be. — Your  friend 
always. 

CXLVII 

(Letter  missing) 

CXLVIII 

Paris,  Wednesday  Morning. 
I  shall  think  of  you  all  day.      Let  me  know 
the  very  first  moment  that  you  can  after  the 


144  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  CL 

decision  is  rendered  what  the  verdict  is.  If 
they  actually  send  you  to  prison  it  will  be 
shameful  on  the  part  of  the  judges,  but  will 
only  prove  that  no  man  was  ever  so  firm  a 
friend  as  is  Prosper  Merimee.  How  proud  M. 
Libri  ought  to  be.  How  proud  I  am  that  I 
can  claim  Prosper  Merimee  as  my  friend. 


CXLIX 

Wednesday  Evening. 
The  wretches  ! ! !      Quinze  Jours  de  prisoji  et 
milk  francs  d'amende  I     Let  me  know  where 
and  when  you  can  see  me. — Your  friend  who 
honours  loyalty  and  is  loyal  to  you. 


CL 

Paris,  31^/  May. 

I  feel  myself  to  be  frightfully  guilty' because 
I  breathe  this  life-giving  sunshine  while  you 
are  behind  bars,  and  I  am  well  and  almost 
cheerful  even  while  I  have  to  take  my  walks 
alone  and  you  can  take  none  at  all.  It  must 
be  the  pride  I  feel  in  hearing  every  one  speak 
of  you  as  they  do,  as  they  could  not  help 
doing,  for  but  one  opinion  exists  as  to  your 
loyalty,  courage,  and  coolness  during  the  whole 
of  this  Libri  affair. 

But  what  a  tangle  of  a  world  it  is,  where 


CLI  PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  145 

such  things  are  possible.  I  hope  that  you 
received  the  book  safely  ;  let  me  know  when 
you  have  finished  with  Beyle.  Think  of  our 
not  even  being  able  to  quarrel ! 


CLI 

,   1 1  t/i  Septetnber. 

While  you  are  wandering  in  Touraine  I 
decided  that  it  would  be  a  capital  idea  for  me 
to  come  and  pay  my  respects  to  the  godmother, 
and  at  the  same  time  take  a  look  at  my  (pro- 
spective) china.  It  is  all  right — the  china,  not 
the  godmother.  This  latter  is  as  unpleasantly 
wrong  as  a  cross-grained  old  woman  who  ought 
to  die  and  does  not,  possibly  can  be.  No  one 
has  a  greater  veneration  for  dignified  old  age, 
silver  locks,  and  all  the  rest  of  it,  than  I  have, 
and  above  all  things  do  I  delight  in  a  beautiful 
old  lady  who  wins  your  love  and  respect  by 
calm  cheerfulness  and  sweetness  as  she  nears 
the  end  of  a  long  life.  But  I  ask  you,  Can  one 
interest  one's  self  in  a  querulous,  selfish,  old 
creature  who  is  always  demanding  sympathy 
for  imaginary  ills  when  she  is  as  sound  as  a 
dray  horse  and  has  not  a  lovable  quality  in 
her  whole  disposition  ?  No  ;  it  is  the  china, 
and  nothing  but  the  china,  which  forces  even 
decent  outward  civility  from  me  to  this  detest- 
able old  woman  whose  name  I  bear,  and  who 
L 


146  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  CLi 

in  my  infancy  undertook  to  renounce  the  world, 
the  flesh,  and  the  devil  on  my  account.  She 
could  only,  I  judge,  have  been  persuaded  to  do 
so  by  the  hope  that  my  share  of  such  vanities 
might  fall  to  her,  for  to  things  carnal  she  is 
wedded  until  her  useless  tyrannical  old  life 
ends.  I  know  she  drove  that  unlucky  woman 
who  had  to  live  with  her  out  of  the  world  by 
simple  nagging,  for  never  in  the  whole  course 
of  my  experience  have  I  found  any  one  such  a 
past  mistress  of  the  art.  In  spite  of  her  assur- 
ances to  the  contrary,  she  is  perfectly  capable 
of  altering  her  will  at  the  last  moment,  and 
leaving  all  this  exquisite  Sevres  to  anything  or 
any  person  beside  myself;  hence  my  peniten- 
tial pilgrimages  to  this  dreary  spot,  and  my 
efforts  to  be  entertaining  when  I  get  here. 
Only  a  day  or  two  longer,  however,  shall  I  be 
able  to  stand  the  strain  on  my  temper ;  then  I 
shall  go,  I  think,  to  England,  perhaps  Scotland, 
for  a  few  visits,  devoutly  praying  that'  a  kind 
Providence  may  gather  the  godmother  to  her 
fathers  before  it  is  time  for  me  to  come  here 
again.  Write  to  me  of  all  that  you  see  and 
do,  and  miss  me,  weary  for  me  as  I  do  for  you 
each  day  and  hour. 


CLII 

(Letter  missing) 


CLV         PROSPER  MERIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE'  147 

CLIII 

London, 
30M  Septeuiber  1852. 

Why  will  you  persist  in  travelling  when  you 
are  not  fit  for  it  ?  Your  letter  has  caused  me 
the  greatest  anxiety,  and  your  account  of  the 
sudden  attack  you  seem  to  have  had  makes  me 
quite  miserable.  It  is  very  wrong  of  you  to 
do  this  sort  of  thing.  Do  return  to  Paris  ;  I 
will  give  up  my  visits  and  meet  you  there  at 
any  date  you  name.  I  wrote  to  you  on  your 
birthday,  but  you  do  not  appear  to  have  re- 
ceived the  letter  ;  our  epistles  must  have  crossed. 
Now  be  sensible,  come  .  .  . 

CLIV 
(Letter  missing) 


CLV 

Paris, 
loth  October  1853. 

Your  two  last  letters,  dated  the  Escurial, 
5  th  October,  and  Madrid,  25  th  October,  have 
both  reached  me  together  this  morning.  Did 
you  carry  the  first  in  your  pocket  until  you 
found  a  travelling  companion  for  it,  or  are  the 
postal    arrangements  in   Spain   entirely  out   of 


1 48  AN  A  UTHOR  'S  LO  VE  CL^ 

order?  Well,  here  they  both  are,  and  that  is 
something,  very  much  indeed,  for  they  have 
given  me  great  pleasure.  Your  suggestion  that 
if  there  is  anything  I  wish  for  I  have  but  to 
speak  to  obtain  it,  is  too  noble  a  one  for  me 
not  to  respond  to.      I  much  wish  for  a  Spanish 

fan  such  as  Madame  de  C •  had,  the  one 

whose  history  you  told  me.  Bring  me  that, 
and  I  will  say  thank  you  with  effusion.  The 
little  flower  which  you  send  in  your  second 
letter  has  even  yet  a  faint  sweet  perfume,  and 
I  can  fancy  it  breathing  to  me  some  of  the 
thoughts  which  I  know  you  had  in  sending  it. 
Merci,  inon  ami.  The  years  as  they  pass  do 
not,  I  think,  lessen  our  friendship.  Tell  me, 
have  I  kept  the  compact  well  which  we  made 
so  long  ago  ?  No,  do  not  tell  me ;  not  on 
paper  at  least.  A  question  like  that  should  be 
asked  and  answered  in  far  different  fashion  ; 
hand  in  hand  and  heart  to  heart,  with  frank 
true  eyes  looking  the  reply  before  the  words 
can  form  themselves  in  speech. 

Your  account  of  the  coinedie  which  you  super- 
intended at  Carabanchel  interested  me ;  your 
young  goddesses  must  have  been  delightful.  I 
am  glad  that  a  little  play  is  mixed  with  all 
your  work,  and  that  the  role  of  Apollo  has 
fallen  to  you  in  so  goodly  a  company.  You 
have  such  a  wide  catholicity  of  sympathy  that 
as  consoler  I  should  imagine  all  classes  come 
tolerably  comfortably  within  your  compass. 


CLVi       PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  149 

The  Court  has  just  gone  to  Compiegne,  and 
Nieuwerkerke  was  not  invited  ;  they  say,  how- 
ever, that  he  has  taken  a  villa  in  the  town.     The 

Princess  M is  more  "  Russian  "  than  ever. 

M.  D tells    me   that   she   encourages   her 

"cousin    the   emperor"   in    all    that    he    does. 
Adieu,  amitsez-voiis  bien,  mais • 


CLVI 

Paris,  -^oth  October  1853. 

Les  affinith  £ectives.  I  will  not  forget  to 
remind  you  of  the  name  on  your  return,  but 
do  give  me  some  faint  idea  of  when  that  is  to 
be.  Are  you  going  to  pass  the  remainder  of 
your  life  in  Madrid  ?  I  shall  begin  to  believe 
that  you  have  gathered  roses  there,  the  reddest 
you  could  find,  if  you  do  not  soon  move  on  to 
other  cities.  By  all  means  bring  the  handker- 
chiefs, the  buttons  I  do  not  care  for.  For  your 
third  suggestion,  les  jarretieres^  know,  O  sage, 
that  such  articles  are  no  longer  worn  by  any 
woman  possessing  the  slightest  consideration 
for  the  shape  of  her  leg  ! 

The  arrest  of  Delescluse,  ancien  co^nmissaire 
of  Ledru  Rollin,  and  of  Goudchaux,  ancien 
Minister  of  Finance  during  the  Republic,  is 
causing  much  comment ;  and  they  say  that 
other  arrests  of  importance  have  been  made  at 
Tours,  Nantes,  and   Nevers.      The  emperor  is 


150  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  CLVii 

blamed  for  showing  too  great  clemency  to  the 
men  sure  sooner  or  later  to  disturb  his  reign. 

I  am  glad  that  at  last  you  will  confess  to  find- 
ing beauty  in  at  least  part  of  Wilhelni  Meister. 
I  think  Goethe  has  put  some  of  his  most  exqui- 
site thoughts  within  its  pages,  yet  until  now  you 
have  always  laughed  at  me  for  saying  so.  Ah, 
do  come  back  ;  writing  for  a  constancy  is  so 
poor  a  compensation  for  our  walks,  and  the 
weather  here  is  wonderfully  good. 


CLVII 

Paris,  25//^  November. 
How  absurd  you  are  about  the  garters ! 
The  femmes  de  chambre  were  about  right  to  be 
indignant  at  the  idea  of  your  bringing  such 
things  for  sotivenirs.  Why  are  the  diplomatic 
representatives  of  the  United  States  always  ex- 
traordinary people  who  do  extraordinary  things  ? 
It  is  everywhere  the  same  story.  Remind  me 
to  tell  you  an  anecdote  of  the  American 
Minister  in  London,  which  is  even  more 
amusing  than  yours  of  the  man  in  Spain,  or 
rather  of  his  son.  If  you  die  in  Madrid,  do 
you  wish  to  be  buried  there,  and  shall  I  come 
to  your  funeral  ?  Ma  foi,  I  believe  you  have 
discovered  that  "  one  friend  "  about  whom  you 
told  me  so  long  ago,  and  that  accounts  for  your 
continued  absence.      Am  I  right  ? 


CLix       PROSPER  MArIMEE'S' INCONNUE'         151 

CLVIII 

Vk^vS>^  \st  December  iZ^-i)' 
Just  as  well,  inon  cher,  that  you  say  you  have 
"  ia7it  (Tenvie "  to  see  me  again,  after  telling 
me  such  a  disgraceful  story  as  the  one  about 
"  la  belle  I'  whose  shoulders  were  placed  "  d,  la 
disposition  de  V."  The  customs  of  a  country  are 
sometimes  odd  things,  but  to  this  one  I  doubt  not 
that  you  took  kindly.  Seriously,  it  is  just  as 
well  that  you  should  return  to  your  native  land. 
The  Court  comes  back  to-day  from  Fon- 
tainebleau,  where  the  emperor  insisted  upon 
the  strictest  etiquette.  No  one  was  allowed  to 
sit  in  his  presence,  whether  he  himself  was 
seated  or  not !  Your  empress  is  much  in- 
terested in  the  form  of  spiritualism  which  makes 
tables  talk.  M.  Guizot  has  been  instrumental 
in  this  fusion  of  the  two  branches  of  the  House 
of  Bourbon,  while  M.  Thiers  is,  they  say,  furious 
at  it,  and  is  all  for  the  Empire. 

When  you  decide  to  come  back  you  will 
find  a  warm  and  loving  welcome  from  yours 
loyally,  M. 

CLIX 

D ,  zistjuly  1854. 

Your  letter  of  the  29th  has  just  been  for- 
warded  to  me  here.      Am  more  distressed  than 


152  A/i  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  clx 

I  can  say  to  learn  that  you  are  suffering,  also 
at  the  news  of  your  friend's  illness.  By  this 
time  I  trust  you  are  both  better.  No  ;  I  have 
no  idea  of  going  to  London  at  present,  so  con- 
tinue writing  to  me  here.  My  plans  are  very 
unsettled,  and  I  may  at  any  moment  be  called 
to ,  as  I  hear  that  my  godmother  is  very  ill. 


CLX 

D ,  lid  August  1854. 

Louis  XIV  after  the  battle  of  Ramillies  said 
—  "  DieiL  a  done  oubli^  tout  ce  que  fai  fait 
pour  hii  ?  "  What  have  I  done,  or  left  undone, 
what  has  Providence  forgotten  or  remembered 
against  me,  that  so  heavy  a  blow  should  fall 
upon  me  ?  Can  you  credit  it,  when  I  tell  you 
that  that  unscrupulous  woman,  that  shameless 
godmother  of  mine,  has  died,  actually  gone  out 
of  the  world,  and  left  no  will  behind  her  !.  All 
my  promised  china,  the  priceless  old  Sevres,  for 
the  sake  of  which  I  have  endured  so  much,  goes 
to  a  distant  cousin,  who  has  never  suffered  any- 
thing at  the  hands  of  the  old  infidel,  for  the 
simple    reason  that   he   never    saw   her.      The 

Chateau  of ,  with  its  pictures  and  furniture 

and  plate,  all  go  with  the  china,  everything,  in 
fact,  passes  into  the  hands  of  a  man  who  does 
not  need  it,  and  is  incapable  of  appreciating  it. 
When   I  remember  the  weeks   and   months  of 


CLXi        PROSPER  M^RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  153 

boredom  I  have  suffered  in  the  society  of  that 
woman,  the  number  of  times  I  have  smiled 
when  I  could  readily  have  wept  with  weariness 
at  her  querulous  plaints,  the  restraint  I  have 
put  upon  that  unruly  member,  the  tongue,  that 
no  word  of  mine  might  jeopardise  the  china,  I 
could  be  desperate  in  many  ways.  It  really  is 
trying,  for  the  one  weakness  to  which  I  plead 
guilty  with  no  reservations  is  a  love  of  rare 
china  ;  and  that  promised  to  me  by  this  wretch 
of  a  godmother  was  worth  waiting  for.  Con- 
sole me  by  a  long  letter  ;  it  is  all  that  is  left 
me.  If  I  could  be  with  you  in  your  journey- 
ings,  see  nature  in  her  loveliest  moods,  and  see 
how  each  one  in  turn  affected  you,  there  might 
be  hope  for  me ;  but  to  be  here  alone  (for 
Madame  de  C has  not  yet  arrived),  know- 
ing my  china  to  be  gone  for  ever,  and  you  to 
be  absent  indefinitely,  is  more  than  I  can  bear 
with  serenity. 


CLXI 

D- 


6//^  Septeinber  1854. 

The  little  flower  from  Innspruck  came  safely, 
and  seemed  to  echo  the  closing  words  of  your 
letter — '^  Ecrivez-moi  tres-longuement  et  tres- 
tendrementr  You  must  know  so  well  that  all 
the  tenderness  of  my  whole   being  is  for  you, 


1 54  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  CLXI 

and  for  you  alone  ;  but  that  you  should  care  to 
hear  it  anew  is  not  unpleasing  to  me  in  the 
year  1854,  when  I  remember  that  it  was  in 
1 840  the  word  "  tenderly "  first  grew  to  be  a 
prominent  word  in  our  mutual  dictionary.  Ah, 
love,  you  have  loved  me  well,  in  joy  and  in 
sorrow,  through  sunshine  and  with  clouded 
skies  ;  "  loyal  and  true "  your  motto,  and  un- 
changing faith  your  creed.  Few  women  can 
claim  as  much,  none  could  ask  for  more. 

I  am  curious  to  hear  your  opinion  of  Vienna  ; 
it  is  a  place  which  fascinated  me  at  first  merely 
as  a  sightseer,  when  I  superficially  enjoyed  the 
gay  Ringstrasse  and  the  enchanting  shops,  the 
curious  vault  of  the  Capucine  Church,  the  Volks 
Garten  with  Strauss  himself  as  leader  of  the 
orchestra,  and  the  procession  of  Corpus  Christi 
in  which  walked  the  emperor,  and  archdukes, 
and  Hungarian  noblemen  in  marvellously  pic- 
turesque attire.  Later  I  found  in  the  fair  city 
by  the  Danube  a  society  more  charming  than 
that  of  any  city  I  know,  a  hospitality  which  no 
other  capital  can  equal.  If  you  once  find  your- 
self among  the  agreeable  Viennese,  I  fear  me 
your  return  will  be  a  matter  of  time  and 
patience,  the  former  yours,  the  latter  mine.  I 
know  well  the  fascination  of  Austrian  men  and 
women,  and  the  numerous  delights  of  Austrian 
life.  You  will  find  it  gemilthlich,  and  once 
under  the  spell  of  that  word  you  are  lost. 


CLXiii     PROSPER  MERIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  »  1^5 

CLXII 


\st  October  1854. 

Your  letter  tells  me  nothing.  You  have  not 
yet  reached  Vienna !  Such  as  it  is,  your  letter, 
it  has  come  to  me  just  as  I  am  leaving  this  place 
for  Paris,  where  you  will  find  me  if  you  return 
within  reasonable  time. 


CLXIII 

Paris, 
\oih  October  1854. 

Ah,  so  "really  truly"  you  find  Vienna  to  be 
"  uri  sejour  agr^able."  I  should  have  been 
terribly  disappointed  had  you  thought  other- 
wise, for  in  so  thinking  you  would  not  only 
have  thrown  great  discredit  upon  my  good 
taste,  but  proved  your  own  to  be  very  bad.  I 
can  scarcely  wait  for  you  to  tell  me  in  person 
all  your  experiences,  in  letter  form  they  are 
always  interesting  and  never  satisfactory.  The 
anecdote  you  relate  of  the  Belgian  Minister  and 
Gortschakofif  was  most  witty.  Did  I  ever  tell 
you  of  having  met  Prince  Gortschakoff  at 
Wildbad  ?  Two  amusing  incidents  are  con- 
nected with  the  occasion  :  one,  that  the  clever 
Russian  paid  me  a  compliment  which  will 
remain  enshrined  in  my  memory  for  frequent 
grateful  reference  when  I  grow  old  and  loqua- 


1 56  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  clxiii 

cious  ;  the  other  will  be  a  useful  warning  to  me 
never  to  play  the  part  of  cat's-paw  for  ambitious 
old  ladies.  The  compliment  arose  from  the  fact 
that  the  prince  spoke  innumerable  languages 
equally  well,  reminding  me,  in  his  fearless  use 
and  ready  application  of  them,  of  a  man  I  once 
saw  throwing  knives  at  a  New  Year  fair  at 
Neuilly.  My  own  conversational  powers  were 
limited  in  their  expression  to  English,  French, 
and  German.  One  afternoon  when  Gortscha- 
koff  was  seated  by  me  under  the  trees  at  Wild- 
bad,  a  very  beautiful  countrywoman  of  his  own. 

Princess   D ,  came  towards  us,  exquisitely 

dressed,  and  her  hands  full  of  yellow  roses. 
Like  most  Russians,  she  too  spoke  almost  every 
tongue,  and  holding  out  a  rose  she  stopped 
before  us  saying  in  Italian  with  an  entrancing 
smile,  "  Your  favourite  colour,  prince  ;  are  you 
not  coming  to  hear  the  music  ?  "  He  took  the 
flower,  paid  her  a  pretty  compliment,  and  sat 
down  again,  while  the  lady,  not  overpleased, 
walked  on.  "  Why  do  you  not  join  her  ?  "  I 
asked ;  "  she  can  speak  in  almost  as  many 
foreign  tongues  as  you  do."  — "  Commenty 
madame,  you  would  seriously  suggest  my 
leaving  a  woman  who  can  converse  with  esprit 
in  three  languages  for  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
silly  things  said  in  six  by  tme  jolie  poiLph  ? 
You  flatter  me."  He  slowly  pulled  the  fragrant 
Gloire  de  Dijon  rose  to  pieces,  leaf  by  leaf,  and 
remained  with  me  during  the  rest  of  the  after- 


CLXiii     PROSPER  M£RIM£E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  157 

noon,  while  the  beautiful  ptincess  enjoyed  the 
music  as  best  she  could  without  him.  Remind 
me  when  we  meet  to  show  you  the  photograph 
of  himself  which  Prince  Gortschakoff  gave  me 
at  this  time.  It  is  an  oval  vignette  ridiculously 
like  the  one  you  have  of  M.  Thiers.  In  signing 
his  name  he  has  spelt  it  Gortchacow. 

My  story  of   playing  cat's-paw  is  a  longer 
one,  but  more  instructive.      You  may  have  met 

Lady  M (not  our  mutual  friend,  however) 

in  London.  You  know  she  began  life  at  the 
bottom  of  the  social  ladder,  as  also  did  Mrs. 

B ,  not  an    Englishwoman    by    birth,   but 

to-day  quite  a  feature  in  English  society. 
Well,  both  ladies  desired  the  attentions  of  the 
Russian  Chancellor  for  themselves,  and  neither 
wished     the    other    to    have    them,    so    Lady 

M encouraged  me  in  keeping  the  prince 

from   Mrs.  B ,  which  lazily  amused  me  for 

the  moment.  She  herself,  however,  was  not  so 
much  amused  at  the  ultimate  arrangement  of 
things,  and  eventually  she  became  as  bitter  an 

enemy  of  mine  as  she  had  caused  Mrs.  B 

to  become,  while  Prince  Gortschakoff  bored  me 
in  the  end,  when  I  found  other  and  younger 
men  to  talk  to.  He  soon  departed,  and  I  saw 
him  no  more ;  on  the  contrary,  the  delightful 

parties    of    Lady   M and    the     agreeable 

dinners    of   Mrs.    B ■  in   London  continue, 

mats  je  ny  siiis  plus.  I  wonder  whether  the  cat 
grew  philosophical  when  she    licked   her  poor 


158  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  clxiv 

burned  paw,  or  whether  she  sadly  and  wisely 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  in  future  she  would 
let  other  people's  chestnuts  alone  ? 

The  Legitimistes  were  wild  with  joy  when 
the  news  which  came  from  Vienna  that  Sebas- 
topol  was  taken  proved  to  be  false,  and  even 
circulated  the  report  that  the  English  and 
French  had  sustained  a  defeat. 

The  American  Bonapartes,  father  and  grand- 
son, dined  with  the  Princess  M a  few  days 

ago.  M.  Chaix  d'Est  Ange  was  present,  and 
gave  it  as  his  opinion,  privately,  that  the 
marriage  of  Mademoiselle  Paterson,  which  had 
been  broken  by  an  imperial  decree  of  the  first 
Napoleon,  could  not  be  recognised  by  the 
present  emperor.  The  ex-king  of  Westphalia 
sent  for  him  to  consult  upon  the  subject.  His 
Majesty  favours  the  Bonaparte-Paterson  claims, 
and  poor  M.  Chaix  is  in  a  terrible  quandary, 
not  wishing  to  displease  the  powers  that  be  ! 
Adieu. 

CLXIV 

Versailles,  \Zth  July  1856. 

No,  the  two  years  that  have  passed  have 
made  no  difference  ;  all  that  you  speak  of  wish- 
ing I  will  do,  even  to  meeting  you  in  London 
if  it  is  a  possible  thing  to  arrange  dates.  Let 
me  know  just  when  you  will  return  there. — 
Yours  always  as  always,  Mariquita. 


CLXVii    PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  159 

PS. — What    souvenirs    there   are   in  every 

detail  of  this  spot.     Have  you  forgotten  ?  Can 
you  ever  forget  ? 


CLXV 
(Letter  missing) 

(His   letter   CLXV   and   her   letter  CLXVI 
both  missing.) 

^  CLxvn 

Dieppe,  2gik/uly  1856. 
Not  a  word  from  you  since  your  letter  dated 
London,  20th  July,  and  I  have  been  anxious  to 
hear  how  you  like  country-house  life  in  Scot- 
land. If  Sundays  are  bad  in  England  they  are 
worse  there.  Do  write  me  of  your  experiences. 
I  am  enjoying  the  sea  as  much  as  I  always  do, 
but  am  growing  anxious  to  hear  from  you. 
What  you  proposed  to  me  when  we  last  met  I 
have  thought  of  carefully  but  cannot  yet  see 
my  way  to  approving  of  the  plan.  Let  us 
wait  and  talk  it  over.  I  feel  sure  that  will  be 
a  wiser  course  than  to  decide  hastily  before 
we  meet. 

CLXVHI 
(Letter  missing) 


1 6o  AN  A UTUOR 'S  LOVE 


CLXIX 


Paris, 
Sunday,  i^lh  December  1856. 

As  you  tell  me  to  do  so,  I  will  send  this  to 
Cannes,  but  fear  it  will  reach  that  place  before 
you  do.  Where  do  you  think  I  spent  my  morn- 
ing ?  At  Versailles,  where  I  made  a  pilgrim- 
age in  memoriam.  Quite  alone  I  went,  for  the 
hundreds  of  Sunday  sightseers  I  did  not  count, 
they  only  made  the  place  more  lonely  to  me, 
besides,  not  one  among  them  knew  our  haunts, 
our  shady  grove  now  wind-blown  and  desolate, 
our  corner  of  the  gallery  passed  by  and  hidden 
from  sight.  You  will  ask  why  I  went  to  look 
at  summer's  bloom  and  living  greenness  turned 
to  winter's  frost  and  cold.  Ah,  why  indeed  ? 
Some  restless  spirit  seemed  to  urge  me  on  ;  I 
felt  forced  to  gaze  upon  that  thing  dead  which 
living  we  must  never  face  again,  and  what 
instead  do  you  think  I  found  ?  A  tiny  bud- 
ding root  which  pierced  through  the  hard  earth 
in  our  grove,  and  clear  sunlight  pouring  in 
through  the  once  fast -closed  window  of  our 
dusky  gallery  corner !  What  does  it  emblem 
and  predict,  this  life  and  light  where  only  stillest 
memories  were  laid  in  darkness  ?  Oh,  love,  let 
it  mean  what  light  and  life  should  always 
mean,  truth  not  falsehood,  goodness  not  evil, 
faith  not  suspicion.      Will  you  agree  to  this,  and 


CLXX       PROSPER  MARIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  i6i 

not  crush  the  bud  or  darken  the  sunlight  ? 
Our  letters  are  sure  to  cross  each  other.  I 
wonder  if  you  too  have  in  these  past  days  given 
a  thought  to  Versailles  and  the  strange  unreal- 
ness  of  the  time  spent  there  ? 


CLXX 

Geneva,  loth  August  1857. 

~0h  this  fascinating  place,  why  have  I  allowed 
so  many  years  to  roll  over  my  head  without 
seeing  it  ?  Yesterday  we  went  to  the  Castle  of 
Chillon,  spent  the  night  at  Vevay,  and  only  re- 
turned here  this  evening.  I  took  Byron  with 
me,  and  grew  as  enthusiastic  as  even  he  could 
have  wished  over  the  fate  of  the  lonely  prisoner. 
I  could  see  the  "sunbeam  which  hath  lost  its 
way,"  although  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  sun  at 
the  moment  of  our  being  there  was  high  over- 
head and  no  stray  beams  were  wandering  about ; 
I  felt  how  "  cankering  a  thing "  iron  could 
become  as  I  touched  the  rings  attached  to  the 
"  seven  pillars  of  Gothic  mould,"  and  so  fully 
did  I  realise  the  human  suffering  which  had 
spent  itself  in  vain  longings  and  hopeless  de- 
spair within  those  "  dungeons  deep  and  old," 
that  I  too  looked  upon  Chillon's  prison  as  a 
"  holy  place  "  and  found  its  "  sad  floor  an  altar." 
There    certainly    is    an    immense    pleasure    in 

M 


i62  AN  A UTHOR 'S  love  Clxx 

travelling,  not  merely  in  the  varying  scenes  of 
the  moment,  but  in  the  store  of  memories  to 
be  garnered  up  as  mind  food  for  future  years. 
We  have  allowed  ourselves  three  weeks  for  our 
trip,  at  the  end  of  which  time  I  shall  hope  to 
meet  you  again  in  Paris.  Venice  is  included 
in  our  programme  ;  in  fact,  I  fancy  that  most  of 
our  time  will  be  spent  there.  I  have  but  one 
regret,  that  is,  that  we  could  not  have  made  the 
journey  together.  This  regret  will,  I  feel  cer- 
tain, only  increase  as  the  days  go  on,  and  will 
culminate  at  Venice  the  first  time  I  glide  along 
the  canal  in  a  gondola,  where  you  are  not,  but 
where  I  shall  think  of  you,  dream  of  you,  and 
long  for  you.  Ah,  mo7i  ami,  you  must  be  first 
always,  far  away  or  close  beside  me,  absent  and 
present  always  my  first  thought,  my  one  deep 
happiness,  my  loyal  love. 

This  ends  the  letters  to  which  answers  are 
found  in  the  first  volume  of  Prosper  M^rimee's 
Lettres  a  tine  Inconmie,  The  first  of  his  letters 
in  the  second  volume,  to  which  one  of  hers 
applies  in  answer,  is  number  CLXXII,  dated 
Paris,  Lundi  Soir,  29  Janvier  1858.  Any- 
thing of  hers  between  number  CLXX  and 
CLXXIV  seems  to  be  missing. 


OLXXiv     PROSPER  MARIMEE'S  '  JNCONNUE  '        163 

CLXXIV 

Paris,  Sunday^  i^th  April  1858. 
Do  I  miss  you  ?  Mais  je  le  crois  bieit ;  how- 
ever, it  may  be  just  as  well  that  you  are  for  the 
moment  absent,  as  I  can  better  attend  to  the 
wants  of  my  numerous  friends,  all  of  whom 
seem  to  have  turned  up  at  the  same  moment, 
and  all  of  whom  are  prepared  to  see  sights, 
and  to  shop,  and  to  hear  the  new  plays,  under 
my  personal  supervision,  so  you  see  that  my 
work  is  cut  out  for  me  for  some  time  to  come. 
Write  me  about  your  work  in  England,  and  of 
how  you  and  M.  Panizzi  get  on  at  the  British 
Museum.  During  one  winter  that  I  spent  in 
London  I  had  a  card  of  admittance  for  the 
reading-room  of  that  venerable  institution,  but . 
invariably  a  thick  fog  would  come  up  as  soon 
as  I  reached  the  building,  and  total  darkness 
would  come  upon  the  inner  rooms  of  the 
library  ;  and  into  these  rooms  no  light  could 
be  carried  ;  and  the  book  I  needed  at  the  time 
was  invariably  to  be  found  only  in  that  corner 
of  the  place  ;  ergo,  my  card  of  admittance  did 
me  but  little  good,  and  the  amount  of  reading 
I  accomplished  at  the  British  Museum  was  of 
the  smallest.  At  Madame  Walewska's  last 
ball  the  emperor  paid  marked  attention  to 
Madame  Greville,  an  extremely  pretty  woman. 
At  last,  after  about  an  hour's  conversation,  he 
tried  to  convince  her  that  he  was  the  emperor, 


i64  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  clxxv 

but  without  raising  his  mask.  She  was  in- 
credulous, when  Caesar  finally  said,  "  Voyez  ce 
petit  salon  de  repos,  il  riy  a  que  VEmpereur  et 
rimperatrice  qui  pidssent  y  entrer^^ — and  im- 
mediately he  did  enter ! 


CLXXV 

Paris,  30//^  April 

I  have  been  studying  one  married  life  that 
seems  absolutely  and  entirely  happy.      Mr.  and 

Mrs.  X have  been  here  for  a  month,  and 

I  have  seen  them  every  day,  sometimes  several 
times  a  day  during  that  time.  They  have  been 
married  fifteen  years,  and  are  the  cheeriest 
people  and  the  best  friends  I  ever  saw.  At  the 
time  of  their  marriage  he  was  a  young  army 
officer  on  slender  pay,  she  had  some  little 
money  of  her  own.  They  divided  everything ; 
she  gave  him  half  of  her  interest  as  it  fell  due, 
he  gave  her  half  of  his  pay  when  it  was  received. 
If  they  went  to  the  theatre  together  each 
bought  their  own  ticket,  if  they  took  a  friend 
they  divided  the  expense  of  his  between  them. 
Half  the  household  expenses  came  out  of  the 
husband's  pocket,  half  out  of  the  wife's,  and 
when  remonstrated  with  by  other  women  who 
deplored  this  as  a  terribly  bad  precedent,  little 

Mrs.     X only    laughed,    and     answered 

stoutly,  "  Why  should  Fred  work  all  day  and 
do   all    the    paying   besides  ?      I    don't    call    it 


CLXxvi    PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE'         165 

fair  ;"  and  things  went  on  as  before,  the  same 
principle  of  equality  entering  into  everything. 
Many  a  time  it  would  have  been  more  than 
easy  for  the  pretty  wife  to  have  spent  all  her 
own  portion  of  income,  that  actually  belonging 
to  her,  and  the  half  of  his  besides,  but  the  idea 
of  so  doing  never  entered  her  head  ;  it  was  share 
and  share  alike  as  simply  and  lovingly  as  two 
children  cutting  an  apple  into  two  equal  parts. 
He  has  now  left  the  army,  and  is  rapidly  amass- 
ing a  fortune,  but  the  old  principle  holds  good 
as  it  did  when  pay-day  came  for  the  young 
lieutenant.  Two  such  cordial  hearty  good 
friends  I  have  never  seen,  hopes,  joys,  fears, 
trials,  and  love  shared  equally  between  them 
even  as  the  gold  and  silver  is,  and  a  great  happy 
whole  is  the  result.  Why  cannot  more  people 
live  lives  like  this,  instead  of  holding  up 
marriage  as  the  greatest  failure  of  the  age  ? 
Are  you  never  coming  home?  The  young 
leaves  are  growing  to  shady  branches,  and  our 
woods  are  all  fresh  and  sweet  and  cool  in  the 
glad  spring  which  will  so  soon  grow  to  summer. 
Let  the  very  first  words  of  your  next  letter  tell 
me  the  day  of  your  return. 

CLXXVI 

Paris,  Thursday  Mornmg. 
It  was  good  to  see  you  again  ;  letters  are  but 
a  poor  substitute  for  sight  and  touch  and  hear- 


i66  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  clxxvii 

ing.      I  am    glad  that  all  my  friends  are  gone, 

even   Mr.  and  Mrs.   X ,  charming  as  they 

were  ;  the  time  is  ours  now,  with  no  outside 
interruptions  to  try  one's  temper  and  spoil 
one's  days.     A  demain. 


CLXXVII 

Paris,  Thursday,  7.0th  May  1858. 

It  does  indeed  seem  tm  siecle  since  we  had  a 
good  long  old-fashioned  talk  such  as  we  used 
to  have  in  the  days  of  long  ago.  This  month 
of  May  has  not  fulfilled  its  promises.  The 
picture  of  myself  you  shall  have  of  course  before 
I  leave  ;  let  us  hope  the  derni-heiLve  de  patience 
will  be  productive  of  a  good  result,  artistically 
speaking,  morally  I  find  the  time  a  trifle  short 

for  much  result  of  any  kind.      M.   D has 

just  told  me  the  following  anecdote.  I  give 
it  you  for  what  it  is  worth.  The  Due  de 
Malakof  in  returning  from  the  races  met  the 
Due  d'Aumale,  who,  standing  up  in  his  carriage 
and  waving  his  hand,  cried,  "  Vive  le  Due  de 
Malakofr 

The  marshal  stepped  out  of  his  carriage  and 
thanked  the  Due  d'Aumale  for  his  generous 
sympathy,  when  the  duke  made  him  a  most 
flattering  little  speech.  Be  quite  certain  that 
you  do  return  by  the  29th,  for  having  joined  a 
party  of  friends  for  this  summer  trip  I  am  no 


CLXxx     PROSPER  MARIMIlE'S  ' INCONNUE  '        167 

longer  quite  my  own  mistress,  that  is,  I  could 
not  possibly  put  off  our  departure  even  for  a 
day,  if  the  penalty  were  to  go  without  bidding 
you  good-bye,  so  pray  allow  nothing  to  keep 
you  beyond  the  promised  time.  Adieu,  mon 
ami,  cher  ami,  so  loyal  and  so  true. 


CLXXVIII 


-,  \oth  June  1858. 


The  book  is  simply  frightful,  badly  written 
and  extremely  immoral.  How  could  you  send 
me  such  a  perverted  view  of  human  nature? 
The  second  portrait  did  not  resemble  me  in  the 
least,  so  why  do  you  regret  it  ? 

Forgive  me  for  .  .  .  mais  11' en  parlons  pins. 
Am  too  tired  after  my  long  journey  to  write 
more.  M. 

CLXXIX 

(Letter  missing) 


CLXXX 

G ,  \othJiily. 

Your  mention  of  Innspruck  reminds  me  of 
an  unsolved  mystery  in  my  life.  It  was  during 
the  first  summer  after  I  had  studied  German 
at  Hannover,  when  I  knew  just  enough  of  the 


i68  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  clxxx 

language  to  understand  almost  all  that  I  heard 
said,  yet  not  quite  all.  My  guardian  had  taken 
me  for  a  month's  journeying,  allowing  a  school 
friend  to  be  of  the  party.  She  also  knew  about 
the  same  amount  of  the  language  that  I  did,  no 
more,  no  less.  At  Innspruck  the  hotel  was 
noisy  and  uncomfortable,  so  we  took  rooms  for 
a  week  at  ^.  pension  perched  up  on  a  hill  away 
from  the  railway  disturbances  which  on  the 
first  night  of  our  stay  had  prevented  us  from 
sleeping.  My  friend  and  I  shared  a  large 
room  together,  and  far  other  noises,  although 
not  less  disturbing  ones,  deprived  us  of  all  rest 
on  the  second  night.  Perhaps  strictly  speaking 
I  should  not  say  all  sleep,  for  tired  out  we  had 
retired  early,  and  slept  at  once,  and  it  was 
between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock  that  a  strange 
harsh  laughter,  and  then  the  sound  of  bitter 
weeping,  roused  us  both  at  the  same  moment. 
Through  the  chink  of  the  door  between  our 
apartment  and  the  one  next  to  it  came  a  line 
of  light,  and  we  could  hear  voices  in  the  same 
direction.  "  No,  no  ;  I  will  never  do  it !  You 
may  kill  me,  but  I  will  never  do  it!" 

This  in  German  spoken  in  a  high  female 
voice,  interrupted  by  sobs.  Although  we  sprang 
out  of  bed  and  listened  at  the  crack  of  the  door, 
neither  of  us  could  hear  the  reply  to  this,  but 
we  could  plainly  distinguish  two  voices  speaking, 
evidently  those  of  a  young  man  and  an  elderly 
woman.       '^  Ach    lieber    Himmel,   torment    me 


CLXxx     PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '         169 

no  more  ! — Heinrich,  Heinrich,  ivo  bist  dii  ? 
Again  both  voices  answered  her  together,  the 
man's  loud  and  angry,  and  twice  we  could  hear 
him  ask  tauntingly,  "  Thou  wilt  not  do  it  ? 
thou  wilt  not  ?  But  we  shall  see. "  A  whole 
volley  of  abuse  followed  in  the  shaking  uncertain 
tones  of  the  old  woman,  but,  strain  our  ears  as 
we  might,  we  could  comprehend  not  one  word. 
Suddenly  the  man's  voice  changed  entirely,  his 
chair  moved,  and  we  imagined  it  to  be  drawn 
closer  to  the  girl,  while  the  words  came  softly 
— "  Liebe  Meme  ich  Hebe  dichr  The  sobs  ceased, 
but  in  their  place  came  a  laugh  so  mirthless, 
so  dreary  in  its  wordless  woe,  that  it  seemed  to 
chill  us  with  a  sudden  cold,  warm  as  was  the 
night.  Then  once  again  the  girl  moaned  out 
the  name  she  had  already  spoken — "  Heinrich, 
Heinrich." — "  Let  her  sleep  now  ;  go,"  the  old 
woman  said  authoritatively  ;  a  chair  moved,  a 
sword  clanked,  and  a  man's  step  crossed  the 
room  quietly,  the  door  closed. 

He  was  an  officer,  then,  the  man.  Who  in 
the  name  of  wonder  could  the  girl  be,  and  the 
woman,  and  what  tragedy  was  being  enacted 
within  our  very  hearing?  Wide  awake  and 
greatly  marvelling  we  crept  back  to  bed,  and 
soon  the  light  behind  the  communicating  door 
was  extinguished. 

The  next  morning  we  told  my  guardian  of 
the  wonders  of  the  night,  and  he,  in  course  of 
conversation  with  the  Hauss  Wirth,  mentioned 


I70  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  clxxx 

that  anything  said  in  the  room  adjoining  ours 
could  be  heard.  The  man  only  shrugged  his 
shoulders  ;  he  evidently  considered  it  no  affair 
of  his.  "  Who  occupies  the  room  ?  "  my  guardian 
continued.  Another  shrug — *'  A  young  lady 
who  is  ill,  and  an  attendant  or  nurse  who  is 
travelling  with  her." — "  And  who  is  the  officer 
who  visits  this  young  lady  at  midnight  ? "  was 
the  next  question  asked.  At  this  the  man 
scowled  angrily,  and  answered  shortly  that  he 
did  not  play  the  spy  upon  his  guests,  nor  did 
he  care  to  be  questioned  about  them  by  others 
staying  in  the  house  ;  if  Monsieur  did  not  like 
the  rooms  there  were  doubtless  plenty  of  others 
to  be  had  in  Innspruck.  Bref^  my  guardian 
got  decidedly  the  worst  of  it  in  the  encounter 
with  the  landlord,  and,  manlike,  showed  his 
resentment  of  that  fact  by  pitching  into  us, 
calling  us  a  couple  of  imaginative  young 
simpletons  who  had  probably  dreamed  the 
whole  thing.  But  when  night  came  we  proved 
him  to  be  wrong,  for  although  we  went  early 
to  our  room  nothing  was  further  from  our 
intentions  than  going  to  sleep.  Taking  our 
position  near  to  the  long  opening  of  the  ill- 
fitting  door,  we  listened.  All  was  still  at  first, 
although  we  thought  we  heard  some  one  turning 
the  leaves  of  a  book  as  though  reading.  About 
nine  o'clock  a  knock  came,  and  in  a  low  tone 
the  old  woman  said,  "  Herein  ; "  then  came  the 
click  of  spurs,   and    the  clanking   of  a   sword 


CLXXX     FRO SPER  M^RIMAE  'S  '  INCONNUE  '         171 

which  was  quickly  taken  off  and  laid  on  the 
table.  "  Sie  schldft,"  the  woman  almost  whis- 
pered, and  there  was  a  long  silence.  Later 
the  two  talked  together,  but  in  too  low  a  tone 
for  us  to  catch  a  word  ;  and  at  last  the  girl 
awoke.  At  first  she  did  not  appear  to  discover 
the  presence  of  the  officer,  but  asked  whether 
she  might  go  out  the  next  day  if  the  sun 
shone.  "  I  am  so  cold,  so  cold ;  and  will 
Heinrich  never  come  ?  "  This  plaintively  like 
a  little  child ;  then  in  frightened,  shrieking 
tones — ^^ Ack,  mein  Gott^  mein  Gott,  is  he  here! 
Send  him  away,  away,  away ! "  The  voice 
grew  shriller  and  shriller,  reaching  almost  to  a 
scream,  and  then  came  the  same  weird  dreadful 
laugh  which  had  so  startled  us  the  night  before. 
Just  as  it  had  been  then,  the  same  tragic 
comedy  was  played  :  the  girl  swore  that 
nothing  would  tempt  her  to  do  the  thing, 
whatever  it  might  have  been,  that  they  were 
urging  upon  her,  while  the  man  first  threatened, 
then  told  her  he  loved  her,  then  went  softly 
away  as  she  fell  into  the  curious  unnatural 
stillness.  Quite  worn  out  with  excitement, 
both  my  friend  and  I  slept  far  beyond  the 
breakfast  hour  the  next  morning,  and  the  first 
thing  I  heard  was  my  guardian  calling  through 
the  door,  "  Look  quickly,  girls,  if  you  want  to 
see  your  mysterious  neighbours  ;  they  are  just 
driving  away."  In  very  light  attire  we  both 
rushed     out    upon    the    balcony    as    a    closed 


1 72  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ci.xxxi 

carriage  passed  before  it.  At  the  window 
nearest  us  was  a  white  face  with  dark  wild 
eyes,  and  opposite  sat  a  good-looking  young 
Prussian  officer.  Was  it  the  fancy  of  our 
imagination  suddenly  startled  from  dreamland, 
or  was  it  truth,  that  the  terrified  face  at  the 
window  seemed  to  look  up  to  us  in  imploring 
despair?  We  never  knew,  and  the  travelling 
carriage  was  quickly  out  of  sight. 

Should  I  ever  go  to  Innspruck  again  I  would 
hunt  out  \h'dX  pension,  and  if  that  uncommuni- 
cative old  Hauss  Wirth  still  lives  I  would  bribe 
him  well  if  only  I  could  persuade  him  to  tell 
me  the  true  story  of  the  girl  and  the  officer 
and  the  old  woman. 

I  enclose  you  an  exact  drawing  of  what  I 
want  you  to  get  for  me  at  Venice,  as  you  are 
so  good  as  to  offer  to  execute  commissions 
there.  There  is  an  old  curiosity  shop  in  a  tiny 
narrow  street  off  the  Grand  Canal  where  I 
once  saw  something  like  it.  If  ampng  the 
hundred  different  curiosity  shops  you  can  find 
this  one,  you  will  have  no  further  trouble  ;  if 
you  think  the  commission  too  complicated  do 
not  bore  yourself  with  it.  Write  soon  to  voire 
amie  sincere. 

CLXXXI 

Chamounix,  1 1th  August. 
The  people  I  am  with  are  such  conscientious 
sightseers  that   I   am  forced,  whether  I  like  it 


CLXXXii    PROSPER  MERIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'       173 

or  not,  to  climb  mountains  and  explore  valleys, 
to  rhapsodise  over  waterfalls  and  go  into 
ecstasies  over  glaciers.  As  for  finding  a  moment 
in  which  to  write,  that  is  an  impossibility  pure 
and  simple  ;  but  you,  by  some  method  known 
only  to  yourself,  seem  to  make  time  for  letters 
which  only  grow  longer  and  more  delightful 
the  more  you  have  to  occupy  you,  so  do  not 
curtail  yours  because  mine  may  become  shorter. 
Habit,  they  say,  is  the  great  master  of  our 
lives ;  you  have  accustomed  me  for  so  long 
now  to  receiving  your  letters  that  my  life  would 
seem  barren  indeed  without  them.  So  write 
quickly  and  often. 


CLXXXII 

\st  Septe7nber  1858. 

Ah,  what  would  I  not  have  given  to  be  with 
you  at  Venice  when  you  assisted  at  the  Fun- 
zione  in  honour  of  the  archduke  !  Six  hundred 
gondolas,  with  lights  and  music,  on  the  Canal ; 
why,  it  must  have  been  fairy-like  in  the  effect 
— a  picture  well  worth  remembering.  I  am 
glad  that  you  thought  of  me  and  wished  for 
me  at  Venice ;  it  surely  is  the  place  of  all 
others  where  one  needs  a  kindred  soul.  Moon- 
light falling  in  its  magic  witchery  on  those 
palaces  which  architecturally  you  find  sans  gotlt 
et  sans  imagination^  turns  them  to  dreams  in 


174  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  clxxxiv 

stone ;  and  the  gliding  noiselessness  of  the 
gondolas,  the  mysteriousness  of  the  bridge- 
spanned  water,  the  winged  lion  clearly  outlined 
against  a  starry  sky,  the  whole  dreamy  wistful- 
ness  of  the  scene  makes  one  long  to  see  it 
while  close  beside  a  heart  that  sympathises 
with  the  hushed  beauty  and  needs  no  words  to 
tell  its  sympathy.  I  know  so  well  the  touch 
of  sadness  in  Venice  air  and  Venice  loveliness, 
and  could  we  feel  it  together  I  am  certain  it 
would  be  no  grief-laden  sadness,  but  only  one 
heavy  with  love.  Let  me  know  when  you 
propose  returning  to  Paris,  and  do  not  get 
back  too  late  in  the  season  for  our  walks. 


CLXXXIII 

^th  October  1858. 

No  ;  the  letter  from  Brescia  never  reached 
me,  and  I  regret  its  loss.  Impossible  to  get  to 
Paris  just  yet,  so  do  put  off  your  return.  I 
have  been  rather  ill,  and  do  not  care  to  exchange 
this  bracing  mountain  air  for  Paris  streets. 
You  will,  I  suppose,  soon  be  at  Cannes,  where, 
at  this  time  of  the  year,  I  should  think  you 
would  find  yourself  the  sole  inhabitant. 

CLXXXIV 

15M  October. 

.  .  .  And  less  still  do  I  like  the  English 
proverb   which   you   so  unblushingly   apply    to 


CLXxxvi    PROSPER  MERIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '       175 

me — "You  look  one  way  and  row  another." 
Where,  if  I  may  ask  the  question,  did  you  pick 
up  such  an  elegant  and  refined  expression  ? 
If  I  did  not  object  to  slang  on  principle  I 
could  quote  another  to  you  which  would  be  a 
worthy  answer ;  but  you  would  carefully  learn 
it,  and  I  should  be  free  from  it  never  again,  so 
I  refrain.  Of  course  you  will  be  furious  with 
me  if  I  am  not  in  Paris  when  you  arrive,  mais^ 
mon  che7'^  I  much  fear  that  is  exactly  what  will 
happen  ;  I  shall  be  some  several  hundred  miles 
distant,  and  you  will  lose  your  temper  all  to  no 
purpose.  Trusting  that  by  some  good  fortune 
you  will  have  remained  on  at  Cannes,  I  will 
send  this  letter  there.  If  you  have  left,  and  it 
is  forwarded  too  late  for  you  to  receive  it  before 
discovering  for  yourself  that  Paris  is  as  yet  not 
blessed  with  my  presence — well,  I  can  only 
say  tant  pis  for  Paris  ;  I  being  safely  out  of  the 
way  cannot  come  to  much  harm,  and  when  we 
do  finally  meet  you  will  have  forgiven  me,  as 
you  always  do  forgive. 

CLXXXV 

(Letter  missing) 

CLXXXVI 

Paris, 
Saturday^  10th  November  1858: 

Eh  Men,  it  is  now  my  turn  to  be  desperate  ! 
I  return  to  Paris  hoping  to  find  an  answer  to 


176  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  clxxxvi 

my  last  letter  which  has  evidently  missed  you  ; 
I  send  at  once  to  ask  whether  you  can  give 
me  to-morrow,  and  the  answer  comes  back 
that  monsieur  is  at  Compiegne  with  their 
Majesties  the  emperor  and  empress !  Me 
voild  plantee.  A  whole  long  Sunday  without 
you  when  I  had  so  counted  on  your  presence, 
and  heaven  only  knows  how  much  longer  time 
you  mean  to  play  the  courtier  and  bask  in 
Imperial  favour.  It  really  is  too  trying.  You 
will  get  this  to-morrow  morning,  on  the  happy 
Sunday  I  had  counted  upon  for  us  to  pass 
together.  If  I  write  more  I  shall  say  some- 
thing I  may  regret,  so  disappointed  am  I,  so 
thoroughly  upset  by  finding  you  gone.  What 
could    have    become    of    my    last    note    from 

G ?      It  told  you  that   I  was  coming,  and 

said  many  things  which  I  flatter  myself  you 
would  have  cared  to  hear.  But  even  if  it  had 
reached  you  I  suppose  an  Imperial  summons 
would  have  put  aside  its  little  humble  claim, 
and  this  would  have  been  almost  worse  than 
feeling  certain  that  you  never  received  the 
letter.  Are  their  Majesties  going  to  ask  you 
very  often,  and  just  at  the  very  times  I  want 
you  ?  Much  comment  is  being  made,  and  not 
of  a  flattering  kind  either,  over  the  rumoured 

appointment  of  Monsieur   H as   Minister 

of  Public  Works. 


CLXXXVii    PROSPEE  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE'     177 


CLXXXVII 

Paris,  Thursday^  i^d  November. 

Finding  that  I  must  resign  myself,  I  do  so 
with  as  good  a  grace  as  possible.  The  whole 
morning  of  yesterday  I  spent  at  the  Louvre, 
going  first  of  all  to  see  my  beloved  Venus  de 
Milo.  The  calm,  passionless  beauty  of  her  face 
always  throws  a  spell  over  me  ;  it  begins  to 
work  as  I  first  see  her  from  the  end  of  the  long 
gallery  after  mounting  the  staircase  and  turning 
to  the  left,  and  it  grows  in  its  subtleness  at 
every  step  which  brings  me  nearer  to  the  fair 
still  woman.  Very  strongly  do  I  incline  to  the 
opinion  that  she  is  no  Venus,  there  is  too  much 
restfulness,  which  tells  of  strength,  in  the  face, 
too  much  meaning  and  depth  of  feeling  to 
be  the  emblem  of  Love's  goddess.  If  her 
beautiful  lost  arms  could  be  found  and  fitted  to 
her  gracious  figure,  I  feel  sure  they  would  never 
take  the  senseless  pose  given  to  the  arms  of 
the  Venus  of  the  Capitol,  or  to  the  Vemcs  de 
Medicis.  After  looking  long  and  with  satisfy- 
ing fulness  at  the  still,  lovely  woman  in  stone, 
I  went  upstairs  to  the  picture  gallery,  and  pass- 
ing by  the  general  favourites  around  which  there 
is  always  a  crowd,  I  walked  on  until  I  came  to 
two  paintings  which  always  attract  me,  they 
hang  nearly  opposite  to  each  other,  and  are 
"  The  Angels'  Kitchen  "  and  the  "  Birth  of  the 
N 


178  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  clxxxviii 

Virgin."  The  faces  of  the  child -angels  are 
bewitching,  and  their  wings  so  downy  you  can 
almost  feel  their  soft  young  feathers.  To-morrow 
I  mean  to  go  to  a  place  I  have  often  wished  to 
see  yet  never  have,  in  spite  of  the  many  years 
during  which  off  and  on  I  have  found  myself  in 
Paris,  and  this  place  is  the  Conciergerie.  If  ever 
a  spot  was  hallowed  by  human  suffering  it  is  that 
small  low  room  within  the  frowning  building 
by  the  bank  of  the  Seine,  the  room  where  Marie 
Antoinette  lived  through  hours  of  agony.  Adieu. 
Amtisez-vous  bien,  mais  ne  m'oubliez  pas. 


CLXXXVIII 

Paris,  idth  November  1858. 

It  is  all  very  well,  monsieur,  to  be  sarcastic 
over  my  present  state  of  resignation,  but  I  ask 
you,  what  else  is  left  me  ?  Is  it  not  far  better 
to  employ  my  time  profitably  by  seeing  things 
of  beauty  and  interest  than  it  would  be  to  tear 
my  hair  and  wring  my  hands  in  vain  bewailing 
of  my  lot,  and  in  impotent  ravings  against  the 
powers  that  be  for  their  appreciation  of  your 
society,  and  their  flattering  detention  of  your 
person  ?  Be  sensible  ;  if  you  cannot  get  away 
from  Imperial  society  it  is  no  doubt  my  loss  ; 
but  being  an  unavoidable  one,  the  next  best 
thing  that  I  can  do  is  to  occupy  my  time 
rationally  until  you  are  able  to  return,  and  this 


CLXXXViii  PROSPER  MERIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE'      179 

I  propose  to  do.  I  went  yesterday  morning,  as 
I  told  you  in  my  last  I  meant  going,  to  the 
prison  of  the  Co7iciergerie,  and  the  terrible  days 
of  the  Revolution  seemed  to  me  more  real  than 
I  ever  felt  them  before.  In  all  history  there  is 
to  me  no  more  pathetic,  shudderingly  horrible 
account  than  that  of  Marie  Antoinette's  cruel 
imprisonment  and  monstrous  death.  What 
mattered  it  to  have  been  queen,  to  have  had  a 
powerful  emperor  for  a  brother,  or  Royal  and 
Imperial  relations,  or  a  people  who  had  shouted 
themselves  hoarse  at  the  coronation,  or  rank,  or 
worldly  honour,  or  fulsome  adulation !  The 
sufferings  and  humiliations  of  the  woman's  life 
so  far  outdid  the  joys  and  triumphs  of  the 
queen's,  and  the  misery  of  the  end  was  so 
widely  disproportioned  to  the  brilliancy  of  the 
beginning.  To  think  of  a  proud  delicate  woman 
being  shut  up  for  months  in  that  narrow  cell, 
where  even  solitude  was  denied  her,  and  a  coarse 
brutal  soldier  was  left  to  watch  her  day  and 
night !  Think  of  the  grated  bars  of  the  window 
through  which  came  a  little  light,  but  with  it 
such  ribald  obscene  language  that  the  light  itself 
heralding  this  additional  torture  must  have  been 
almost  a  dreaded  guest.  And  then  the  mockery 
of  the  so-called  trial  with  charges  brought  more 
terrible  than  death  in  their  unnatural  horror  ; 
the  long  suspense  ;  the  burning  disgrace  of  the 
common  cart  with  a  fiend  in  human  form 
seated    beside   the   daughter   of  the   House  of 


i8o  AN  A UTIIOR 'S  LOVE  clxxx vrii 

Hapsburg  ;  the  long  agonised  progress  through 
the  crowded  streets  amid  the  hoots  and  jeers  of 
a  maddened  populace ;  the  secret  absolution 
falling  from  pitiful  lips  ;  the  place  of  execution 
saturated  with  the  blood  of  hundreds  ;  the  for- 
saken loneliness  ;  the  fear,  the  shame,  the  shud- 
dering agony  of  the  end !  God,  to  think  of  it 
all  to-day,  after  long  years  have  passed,  makes 
one  tremble  with  grief,  and  pity,  and  amazement 
at  the  hellish  cruelty  of  it  all.  France  more 
than  any  country  upon  earth  is  surely  the  most 
ungrateful,  the  most  forgetful  of  its  own  promises. 
The  people  shout  Vive  le  Roi  I  with  no  greater 
enthusiasm  than  they  will  cry  a  little  later  ct 
has  la  Monarchie !  and  they  hail  a  Republic 
with  the  same  eagerness  that  they  have  shown 
before  in  acclaiming  an  emperor.  "  Unstable 
as  water,  thou  shalt  not  succeed,"  was,  I  am 
convinced,  spoken  centuries  ago  as  the  rightful 
motto  for  the  French  nation.  I  have  no  patience 
with  them  as  a  nation,  all  my  kindly  feeling 
goes  to  one  and  one  only  of  the  race.  Poor 
Marie  Antoinette  had  better  never  have  played 
at  dairymaid  in  Le  petit  Trianon,  or  lent  her 
beauty  to  grace  the  royal  festivals  at  Versailles, 
when  only  the  ghastly  scaffold  in  the  wide 
Place  de  la  Concorde  was  to  be  the  end.  Does 
the  Empress  Eugenie,  I  wonder,  ever  tremble  as 
she  looks  out  over  the  Tuileries  gardens  at  the 
accursed  spot,  or  query  whether  the  day  may 
yet  come  when  she  too  shall  gaze  upon  a  sea  of 


CLXXxix   PROSPER  MiRIMiE'S  ' INCONNUE'       i8i 

angry  human  faces,  or  fly  from  the  execrations 
of  an  enraged  Paris  multitude  ?  I  should  think 
it  would  be  a  trifle  alarming  even  in  these  later 
days  to  mount  a  throne  in  France. 

Montalembert  has  been  condemned  to  six 
months'  imprisonment,  and  a  fine  of  three 
thousand  francs,  for  an  article  comparing  the 
government  of  France  unfavourably  with  that 
of  England.  Le  Correspondant  was  the  journal 
in  which  the  article  appeared. 

Your  account  of  the  temperature  in  which 
you  pass  your  days  at  Compiegne  is  uncomfort- 
able ;  do  be  careful,  and  do  not  come  back  all 
knocked  up  with  the  extreme  sudden  changes 
in  which  you  seem  to  indulge.  Are  they  not 
tired  of  you,  the  emperor  and  empress  ?  Do 
be  a  little  disagreeable  and  be  sent  away  ! 

CLXXXIX 

Paris,  New  Yearns  Day ^  1859. 

The  two  books  came  safely.  I  can  quite 
believe  how  you  were  hurried  before  leaving, 
but  am  thankful  that  we  had  at  least  one  long 
happy  day  ere  you  took  your  departure.  "  He 
only  is  rich  who  owns  the  day,"  is  a  sentence  I 
came  across  some  time  ago  in  some  miscellane- 
ous reading,  and  very  rich  I  feel  even  at  the 
remembrance  of  this  day,  which  I  did  indeed 
own,  wholly  and  entirely.  What  an  extraordi- 
nary custom  this    is  in   Paris  of  allowing  the 


1 82  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxo 

beggars  free  liberty  to  infest  the  streets  on  New 
Year's  Day.  I  went  to  Notre  Dame  this 
morning,  where  the  music  was  unusually  good, 
but  my  patience  was  sorely  tried  during  the 
walk  there  by  the  ceaseless  application  for  soils^ 
and  coming  back  I  took  a  fiacre  to  avoid  the 
nuisance.  We  walked  for  some  time  along  the 
Boulevards  last  night  to  see  the  temporary 
booths.  What  rubbish  they  sell  at  them,  but  I 
suppose  the  people  are  amused  and  would  not 
think  it  the  joiir  de  Van,  if  both  booths  and 
rubbish  were  not  there.  May  every  good  and 
blessing  come  to  you  with  1859,  health,  wealth, 
happiness,  and  love.  But  no,  I  would  not  have 
that  latter  come  to  you,  love,  because  it  is 
yours  already  ;  I  would  only  have  it  grow  and 
strengthen  in  faith  and  truth  and  loyalty ;  I 
would  have  you  to  say  to  me  Amigo  de  mi 
alma  in  the  years  to  come,  as  you  have  said  it 
in  the  years  that  are  gone.  Your  idea  of  our 
going  together  to  Florence  next  winter  is  more 
than  tempting.  If  I  am  to  catch  the  post  in 
order  that  you  may  get  this  at  Marseilles  before 
going  on  to  Cannes  I  must  stop  writing  and  send 
my  letter  at  once.     Pas  adieu,  mais  au  revoir. 

cxc 

Paris, 
Tuesday,  \ 2th  January  1859. 

It  was  delightful  to  read  in  your  letter  from 
Cannes  of  the  sunshine  you  are  enjoying  there, 


cxci  PROSPER  MARIMJ&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '        183 

for  here  it  is  the  dreariest  of  dreary  winter 
weather,  and  I  am  very  thankful  that  you  and 
your  throat  are  well  out  of  it.  The  books  I 
chose  with  all  possible  care,  being  doubly 
particular  with  those  destined  for  Mademoiselle 
Olga,  so  I  am  very  glad  that  she  liked  her 
share  of  them.  The  Memoires  de  la  Margrave 
de  Baireuth  I  have  read,  but  not  those  of 
Catherine  II  of  Russia,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to 
have  them  when  you  return.  It  is  a  horrid 
nuisance  about  your  servgint ;  I  wish  you  could 
find  a  good  English  valet.  Before  you  leave 
Cannes  I  will  send  you  a  list  of  the  vases, 
shapes  and  colours,  that  I  want  you  to  get  for 
me  in  the  Valauries  pottery.  Remind  me  of 
this  should  I  forget  it.  To-night  I  am  going 
to  a  ball  at  the  Tuileries. 


CXCI 

Paris,  27th  January. 

I  have  read  the  Dictionnaire  du  Mobilier  de 
Viollet-le-Duc  which  you  sent  in  your  last  letter, 
but  like  it  only  indifferently  well.  There  are 
ideas,  certainly,  but  you  write  less  in  your  usual 
style,  and  rather  as  though  you  were  not 
thoroughly  in  sympathy  with  your  subject. 
My  criticism  may  be  unjust,  but  there  it  is ;  this 
is  the  way  in  which  the  work  strikes  me.  By 
what  date  are  you  obliged  to  have  the  article 


i84  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cxcii 

on  Prescott's  Philip  II  ready  for  the  Revue  des 
Deux  Mondes  ?  That  I  feel  sure  I  shall  like. 
Your  empress  looked  quite  lovely  at  the 
Tuileries  ball  of  the  1 2th.  She  wore  a  gown  of 
pale  rose  colour  trimmed  with  chocolate  brown, 
and  as  jewels,  the  diamonds  given  by  the  city 
of  Paris.  The  crush  was  something  awful,  and 
every  one  was  talking  of  an  almost  certain  war. 


CXCII 

Paris,  2  2,d  March  1859. 

To  think  that  I  shall  see  you  back  here  again 
to-morrow  !  It  seems  almost  too  good  news  to 
be  true.  I  have  just  finished  the  review  of 
Prescott's  Philip  II,  and  liked  it  immensely  ; 
but  will  tell  you  all  I  think  of  it  in  person. 
Reports  as  to  the  chances  of  war  are  so  contra- 
dictory that  I  hardly  know  what  to  write  to 
you  as  the  opinion  here.  In  case  you  may  not 
have  seen  this  morning's  Mo?iiteur  I  copy  its 
official  announcement  for  your  benefit : — "  La 
Russie  a  propose  la  reunion  d'un  congres  en 
vue  de  prevenir  les  complications  que  I'etat  de 
ritalie  pourrait  faire  surgir  et  qui  seraient  de 
nature  a  troubler  le  repos  de  I'Europe. 

"  Ce  congres  compose  de  plenipotentiaires  de 
la  France,  de  I'Autriche,  de  TAngleterre,  de  la 
Prusse  et  de  la  Russie,  se  reunirait  dans  une 
ville  neutre. 


oxciii       PROSPER  MERIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE'        185 

"  Le  Gouvernement  de  I'Empereur  a  adhere  a 
la  proposition  du  cabinet  de  St.  Petersbourg. 
Les  cabinets  de  Londres,  de  Vienne  et  de  Berlin 
n'ont  pas  encore  repondu  officiellement" 

God  grant  that  they  may  answer  favourably, 
and  that  the  war  with  Italy  may  not  be.  My 
brother  would  of  course  be  obliged  to  go  with 
the  army,  and  I  cannot  think  of  that  without 
dread. 

CXCIII 

Paris,  2:^d  April  1859. 

Is  it  not  terrible,  this  news  of  certain  war 
with  Italy?  My  poor  brother  is  off  directly. 
The  word  poor  is  hardly  the  right  one  to  use, 
or  any  expression  denoting  pity,  for  he  is 
delighted  at  the  prospect  of  some  fighting,  and 
would  not  if  he  had  the  chance  be  anything  but 
a  soldier.  To  me  the  very  name  of  war  is 
terrible,  being  synonymous  as  it  is  with  suffering 
and  misery  and  death.  I  once  saw  a  regiment 
march  off  to  join  an  army,  the  men  all  well 
and  strong,  full  of  hope  and  eager  for  the  fray, 
confident  of  victory  and  certain  of  glory,  in- 
spiring with  their  own  courage  and  enthusiasm 
the  wives  and  children  and  friends  gathered  to 
bid  them  God -speed  ;  later  I  saw  that  same 
regiment  return,  all  that  was  left  of  it ;  and  I 
watched  the  faces  of  the  widows  and  the 
fatherless  and  the  desolate  as  they  scanned  each 


1 86  AN  A UTHOR \S  LOVE  co i 

tired,  wounded,  travel-stained  man  only  to  find 
that  the  ones  they  sought  were  among  the 
missing.  In  presence  of  their  grief  even  those 
who  had  returned,  and  those  happy  ones  who 
had  found  their  own  again,  were  sombre  and 
silent.  The  contrast  between  the  gay,  hopeful 
going  forth  and  the  sorry  coming  back  was  too 
strong,  and  meant  too  much. 

Tell  me  if  you  think  this  war  will  be  of 
long  duration.  Is  it  possible  as  yet  to  know 
anything  in  regard  to  it  ?  I  thought  I  should 
have  heard  from  you  to-day  before  now,  and  I 
fancy  each  bell  that  rings  brings  news  of  you, 
for  you  will  not  have  forgotten  that  I  leave  for 
Turin  early  to-morrow.  I  must  see  my  brother 
before  he  goes,  but  it  is  with  a  heavy  heart  that 
I  leave  on  such  a  mission.  Good-bye  at  any 
time  is  to  me  the  saddest  of  words,  but  at  a 
time  like  this  it  is  doubly  hard  to  say. 

(Letters  missing  from  CXCIV  to  CC  inclusive.) 


CCI 

,  loth  July  1859. 

Oh,  mon  ami^  if  you  could  know  the  relief  I 
feel  at  the  declaration  of  peace  and  the  safety 
of  my  brother !  I  know  how  remiss  I  have 
been  during  all  this  time  of  excitement  in  not 
sending  you  anything  that  could  by  the  wildest 


ecu  PROSPER  M&RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '        187 

stretch  of  the  imagination  be  termed  a  letter  ; 
my  hurried  communications  have  been  such 
mere  scraps,  and  so  few  and  far  between,  that 
I  wonder  at  your  loving  patience  in  answering 
them  as  you  have  done.  Your  long  letters 
with  the  latest  news  of  the  progress  of  the  war 
from  a  Paris  standpoint  have  been  my  greatest 
comfort  during  the  past  three  months,  when  I 
have  had  my  sister-in-law's  fears  to  calm  as 
well  as  my  own.  Now  the  reaction  has  come 
after  the  long  and  trying  suspense,  I  feel 
wildly  gay,  ready  for  anything,  equal  to  most 
things.  The  discourse  of  the  emperor  at  St. 
Cloud  yesterday  I  find  both  noble  and  good, 
and  devoutly  do  I  trust  that  his  last  words,  "  Le 
repos  de  V  Eur  ope '^^  represent  un  fait  accompli  ! 
A  good  many  people  one  knows  are  here,  and 
society  is  becoming  quite  dissipated  after  its 
forced  seclusion.  Why  do  you  stop  on  in  Paris 
so  late  ?  I  hear  that  it  is  very  warm  there,  and 
I  cannot  think  it  good  for  you  to  run  the  risk 
of  extreme  heat  when  you  continue  to  complain 
of  sleeplessness  and  want  of  appetite.  Write 
me  your  plans. 

ecu 

,  idth  July  1859. 

Yours  of  the  21st  has  this  instant  reached 
me.  Are  you  quite  mad  to  remain  on  in  Paris 
feeling   as  ill  as  you   do  ?     Leave  at  once,   I 


i88  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  coin 

entreat  you,  or  if  you  insist  upon  staying  there, 
and  would  like  me  to  come  on,  I  will  do  so. 
The  tone  of  your  letter  is  so  depressed  it  has 
given  me  an  attack  of  blue  devils,  and  quite 
spoiled  for  me  an  expedition  to  which  I  had 
been  looking  forward  with  great  pleasure.  A 
party  of  six,  including  myself,  are  to  go  up  the 
mountains  on  mules  to-morrow  afternoon,  after 
it  grows  cool,  spend  the  night  at  a  little  sort 
of  shed  on  the  top  mountain,  and  see  the  sun 
rise  the  next  morning.  A  couple  of  servants 
are  to  precede  us  with  two  extra  mules  laden 
with  creature  comforts  in  the  form  of  bedding, 
food,  etc.,  as  the  native  accommodations  are  of 
the  roughest.  Could  you  only  be  of  the  party 
the  expedition  would  be  perfect,  as  it  is,  not 
only  shall  I  miss  you — that  I  should  have  done 
in  all  cases — but  now  since  hearing  how  miser- 
able you  are  my  pleasure  will  be  tempered 
down  to  a  very  mild  degree  indeed.  I  will, 
however,  write  you  an  account  of  the  excur- 
sion should  anything  of  interest  occur.     Adieu. 


CCIII 

,  ^th  August. 

The  mountain  trip  was  most  successful,  and 
just  as  I  was  preparing  to  write  to  you  about 
it,  and  tell  you  the  story  of  a  peasant  girl  we 
met,  and  in  whom  we  became  much  interested, 


ecu  I       PROSPER  M&RIMEE'S  '  JNCONNUE  '         189 

your  letter  of  the  30th  arrived.  You  are  quite 
correct  in  your  imaginings  about  me  ;  I  am 
terribly  sun-burned,  and  I  regret  to  be  obliged 
to  confess  that  I  have  grown  fatter !  However, 
with  your  written  promise  before  me  that  no 
matter  what  changes  have  come  to  me  you  will 
still  be  charmed  to  see  me,  and  that  I  may 
count  upon  being  treated  with  great  tenderness, 
I  feel  equal  to  any  confession.  Ah,  mon  ami, 
what  strength  is  given  by  a  great  love  and  a 
boundless  trust  between  two  human  beings ! 
It  places  in  one's  heart  a  little  fortress  which 
outside  influences  assail  in  vain,  and  which  is  so 
securely  stored  with  faith  and  confidence  as 
ammunition,  and  assured  affection  as  provisions, 
that  no  siege  can  weaken  it,  no  attack  prove 
dangerous.  Do  not  be  so  depressed  about 
yourself,  and  do  in  pity  give  yourself  a  holiday. 
Come  and  see  me  here,  and  get  a  little  of  this 
life-giving  air  into  your  lungs  ;  I  venture  to 
say  you  would  feel  better  within  an  hour  after 
your  arrival.  And  now  I  must  tell  you  about 
our  peasant  girl,  the  beautiful   pale  contadina 

whom  Lady  M and   I   have  adopted  as  a 

protegee. 

Mazetti  Marco,  the  miller,  was    the  richest 

man  in  the  Commune  of  C ,  and  all  the 

young  men  for  miles  around  knew  that  the 
dark-eyed  Rosina,  the  miller's  only  child,  would 
have  fifteen  hundred  francs  ;  some  of  the  village 
gossips    even  went    so    far  as  to  whisper  two 


1 90  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  com 

thousand  francs,  as  her  marriage  portion.  This, 
added  to  the  girl's  beauty,  made  Rosina  much 
sought  after  by  the  young  men,  and  terribly 
envied  by  the  young  women,  yet  so  sweet  and 
lovable  was  the  girl  that  even  Betta  Caproni, 
whose  envy  came  very  near  to  hatred,  dared 
not  openly  say  a  word  against  the  miller's 
daughter,  who  was  beloved  by  the  whole  Com- 
mune. Rosina's  greatest  charm  was  the  deep 
soft  red  colour  which  was  like  her  name-flower, 
the  rose,  and  which  came  and  went  in  her 
cheeks  at  every  changing  mood  ;  deepening  at 
affectionate  words,  or  paling  with  sympathy 
when  a  child  was  hurt,  or  a  neighbour  ill,  or 
even  if  her  little  dog  Rita  hurt  its  foot  and 
whined.  For  several  years  the  girl  Betta  had 
loved  a  young  contadino  called  Angelo,  a  fine 
strapping  fellow  who  could  sing  and  dance,  and 
was  always  the  gayest  youth  at  a  festa,  and  who 
could  make  love,  so  the  gossips  declared,  faster 
than  he  could  work  to  get  an  honest  living. 
After  a  fashion  of  his  own  Angelo  returned 
Betta's  fierce  love,  which,  truth  to  tell,  he  was 
half  afraid  of;  but  on  a  certain  feast-day  he 
learned  something  which  quite  turned  his  head, 
and  put  all  thoughts  of  Betta  out  of  it.  It  was 
the  roses  in  Rosina's  cheeks  which  betrayed  the 
secret  in  her  heart,  and  told  to  Angelo's  wonder- 
ing astonishment  that  the  miller's  daughter,  the 
pretty  heiress  of  the  Commune,  did  not  look  with 
any  disfavour  upon   him   as   a  partner  for  the 


ccm        PROSPER  M^RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'         191 

dance,  or  as  her  companion  afterwards,  when  by 
the  light  of  a  silver  summer  moon  the  village 
youths  and  maidens  wandered  under  the  per- 
golas, and  told  in  their  soft  Italian  tongue  the 
old  old  story  which  seems  to  grow  young  again 
in  the  telling.  Old  Mazetti  at  the  mill  was  not 
overpleased  when  his  child  and  his  child's  mother 
pleaded  for  Angelo,  and  said  that  they  were 
sure  that  love  for  Rosina  would  cure  him  of  all 
laziness  and  wildness  and  a  few  other  little 
characteristics  which  were  scarcely  those  which 
Mazetti  had  hoped  to  find  in  a  son-in-law. 
Rosina's  lovely  rounded  cheeks  were  whiter  than 
her  father  had  ever  seen  them,  while  he  hesitated 
before  consenting  to  give  her  Angelo  as  a 
marito,  and  he  felt  almost  repaid  for  yielding 
against  his  better  judgment  when  the  roses 
came  again,  first  in  an  uncertain  flush  of  rosy 
pink,  but  always  growing  deeper  and  warmer 
in  tone  as  the  blood  came  back  to  the  girl's 
anxious  heart  and  leaped  joyously  through  her 
veins.  She  was  very  happy  as  she  sat  under 
the  vines  with  Angelo,  whose  black  eyes  burned 
with  triumph  when  he  thought  how  all  the 
youths  for  miles  around  would  envy  him  his 
good  fortune  in  winning  the  miller's  daughter 
and  her  fat  dowry.  But  Betta,  when  the  news 
came  to  her,  would  not  believe  it ;  she  said  it 
was  a  silly  lie  which  Angelo  himself  would  be 
the  first  to  laugh  at.  He  had  promised  to 
marry  her   when   he   got  work  that    paid,  and 


192  AN  A  UTHOR  'S  L 0  VE  ociii 

he  was  too  fine  a  fellow  not  to  find  work 
quickly. 

Perhaps  so,  said  the  gossips,  if  he  ever  looked 
for  it. 

Some  days  passed  before  Betta  saw  Angelo, 
but  when  she  did,  and  he  told  her  half  roughly 
that  it  was  bad  enough  for  a  man  to  live  on 
nothing,  but  no  one  could  expect  him  to  keep 
a  wife,  and  the  bambino  heaven  was  sure  to 
send,  on  the  same,  and  he  was  tired  of  trying 
for  work.  The  times  were  very  hard,  and  soon, 
if  all  the  new-fangled  notions  were  acted  on, 
there  would  be  no  work  for  any  one.  Betta 
listened  in  silence  ;  she  knew  well  enough  that 
all  he  was  saying  in  long  sentences  and  twisted 
phrases  could  very  well  be  put  into  two  or  three 
words  as  follows  :  Rosina  has  a  dowry  of  fifteen 
hundred  francs,  and  I  need  not  work  if  I  marry 
her.  That  was  all  ;  and  the  more  roughly 
Angelo  spoke,  the  more  certain  was  Betta  of 
one  thing,  which  at  least  gave  her  a  fierce 
comfort  in  the  midst  of  her  sudden  anger — 
Angelo  loved  her  better  than  he  did  Rosina  ; 
if  she  had  the  dowry,  Angelo  would  be  hers. 
Almost  in  silence  Betta  turned  and  left  the 
man  she  cared  for  in  her  strong,  ignorant  way, 
but  a  new  power  seemed  born  within  her  heart, 
while  a  voice  kept  repeating  more  and  more 
distinctly — "  If  I  had  the  dowry,  Angelo  would 
be  mine." 

Rosina  was  happy,  giving  much  in  the  gener- 


com       PROSPER  MERIM&E'S'INCONNUE'  193 

ous  simplicity  of  her  affection,  and  not  under- 
standing that  Angelo  gave  very  Httle.  And 
the  time  went  on,  and  the  gossips  wagged  their 
heads  and  said  Mazetti  Marco  was  a  fool,  and 
Rosina  was  throwing  herself  and  her  dowry 
away,  and  Betta  had  grown  very  black  to  look 
at,  but  no  one  minded  the  gossips.  So  the 
sum.mer  passed,  and  winter  came  on,  and  all 
the  arrangements  were  being  made  ready  for 
the  marriage ;  only  two  days  now,  and  Angelo 
would  take  Rosina  for  his  wife,  and  the  dowry 
would  be  surely  his.  The  miller  had  been  to 
the  town  where  the  money  was  kept,  and 
brought  it  back  with  him  in  a  stout  leather 
bag, — this  all  the  Commune  knew, — and  the 
feasting  for  the  marriage  was  to  begin  the  next 
day.  There  was  no  moon,  and  the  night  was 
very  dark,  but  presently  all  the  village  was 
aroused  by  a  lurid  glare  which  reddened  the 
heavens  as  though  with  blood,  and  brought  out 
clearly  the  fright  and  terror  in  the  people's 
faces  as  quickly  they  ran  all  in  the  same  direc- 
tion, towards  the  mill  and  the  miller's  home, 
which  were  wrapped  in  sheets  of  flame.  Later 
the  fright  grew  to  ghastly  horror,  for  although 
the  miller's  wife  and  daughter  were  safe,  Mazetti 
Marco  was  only  a  charred  and  blackened  form. 
"  He  had  gone  back  for  the  money  and  could 
not  escape  !"  so  said  all  the  gossips  when  talk- 
ing together  of  the  marriage  that  would  never 
be,  and  the  dowry  that  had  been  burned,  and 
O 


194  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cci v 

the    pretty    heiress  who   was    now   as   poor   as 
Betta  herself. 

There  my  story  comes  to  a  natural  pause, 
so,  like  the  Princess  Shehrzad  in  the  Arabian 
NightSy  I  will  postpone  the  ending  of  it  until 
"  next  time."  Please  take  an  interest  in  poor 
Rosina,  for  you  will  see  her  if  you  come 
here,  only  you  will  find  no  roses  in  her 
cheeks. 


CCIV 


-,  \(dih  August. 


First  of  all  will  I  answer  your  question  as 
to  what  time  you  can  come  and  see  me.  At 
any  time.  Choose  your  own  date,  and  do  not 
waste  ink  and  paper  in  writing  me  nonsense 
about  my  talents  for  dilatory  negotiations  and 
my  resemblance  to  Austrian  diplomatists ! 
The  sooner  you  come  the  better  I  shall  like  it, 
for  no  other  reason  than  the  one  you  will  know 
to  be  a  true  one,  however  reluctant  you  may 
be  to  acknowledge  that  fact,  namely,  that  I 
long  to  see  you  ;  I  weary  for  you. 

And  now  for  the  end  of  my  history  of 
Rosina.  Poor  girl !  from  the  night  when  she 
saw  her  father  a  lifeless  mass  of  charred  flesh, 
her  home  a  heap  of  ashes,  her  dowry  and  pro- 
mised husband  lost  to  her  for  ever,  and  her 
mother  a  helpless  wreck,  with  mind  about  gone 
from   the   succession   of  horrors   she   had   lived 


cciv        PROSPER  AI&RIM^E'S  'INCONNUE'  195 

through,  every  tinge  of  colour  left  the  cheeks 
of  the  miller's  daughter,  never  to  return.  A 
strange,  unnatural  pallor  overspread  her  face, 
from  which  the  large,  sad  eyes  looked  out  hope- 
lessly at  the  changed  life  still  left  for  her  to 
live.  A  strange,  new  pride,  too,  seemed  to 
have  come  to  the  penniless  contadina  who  no 
longer  ranked  above  the  village  girls  around 
her,  which  pride  had  never  belonged  to  the 
well -dowered  maiden  who  was  acknowledged 
to  be  above  her  associates.  It  was  only  a  very 
little  that  those  around  her  could  offer,  for  the 

inhabitants   of   the    Commune   of  C were 

terribly  poor,  but  on  all  sides  some  gentle, 
kindly  deed  was  remembered  of  the  pretty 
Rosina,  with  the  soft,  deep  colour  like  her 
blushing  name-flowers  ;  and  human  nature  is  not 
all  bad,  especially  when  human  beings  are  poor. 
But  even  this  little  the  girl  declined.  A  poor 
two  hundred  francs  remained  in  the  town  where 
Mazetti  Marco  had  kept  his  money,  and  with 
that  Rosina  first  buried  all  that  was  left  of  the 
old  man,  and  then  bought  a  tiny  building  with 
two  rooms,  pretty  enough  in  summer-time, 
when  the  vines  twined  lovingly  over  roof  and 
walls,  but  very  cold  and  bare  in  the  winter 
days,  when  the  little  scaldino  would  be  placed 
close  to  the  poor,  half-witted  old  mother,  while 
Rosina  and  the  dog  Rita  sat  close  together, 
that  a  little  warmth  and  comfort  might  come 
to   both.      "  She    ought    not    to    keep   the   dog 


196  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cciv 

when  they  are  so  poor,"  the  gossips  said  one 
to  another,  but  only  the  girl  herself  and  the 
dog  knew  that  they  would  rather  be  hungry 
and  be  together  than  well  fed  and  divided. 
Oh  the  scalding  tears  that  fell  on  Rita's  shaggy 
little  yellow  neck  when  the  pale  Rosina  would 
drop  the  work  she  was  trying  so  hard  to  make 
support  them  all,  and  would  think  of  the  little 
while  ago  when  she  and  work  were  strangers, 
and  the  good  old  father  shielded  her  from  every 
ill,  and  Angelo  her  lover  sat  beside  her  under 
the  vines.  Only  Rita  knew,  for  the  mother 
understood  nothing  now,  and  the  neighbours 
never  saw  the  girl  save  when  she  walked  quietly 
but  proudly  among  them,  asking  help  from 
none,  and  still  doing  kindly  acts  for  sick  child- 
ren or  tired  mothers.  The  work  paid  so  poorly, 
and  Rosina's  fingers  were  cut  and  blistered  with 
plaiting  the  reeds  for  the  basket-makers.  Of 
Angelo  she  saw  nothing ;  she  never  went  to 
the  festas,  and  music  and  dancing  were  still 
the  things  which  Angelo  did  best.  He  had 
gone  back  to  Betta  in  a  shy,  sheepish  sort  of 
way,  and  was  more  than  astonished  that  the 
girl's  old  fierce  love  seemed  changed,  only  find- 
ing expression  now  in  sharp  speeches  or  harsh 
answers  to  his  questions,  yet,  strangely  enough, 
Angelo  had  never  liked  her  so  well  as  now. 
Betta  herself  had  been  very  quiet  all  these 
days  when  so  much  was  happening  in  the 
village,    but    quiet    with    a    quietness   which    is 


cciv        PROSPER  MARIMEE'-S  ' INCONNUE'  197 

very  apt  to  be  synonymous  with  strength,  or 
to  indicate  possession  of  that  knowledge  which 
is  power.  Twice  lately  she  had  gone  away, 
her  mother  said  to  stay  with  an  old  uncle  who 
had  money,  much  money,  which  he  sometimes 
thought  he  might  leave  to  Betta  when  he  died  ; 
and  each  time  she  came  back  after  one  of  these 
visits  the  girl  had  a  new  kerchief  pinned  around 
her  throat,  or  long  ear-rings,  or  a  string  of 
beads  around  her  neck,  which  the  uncle  had 
given  her.  "  It  is  very  strange,"  the  gossips  said, 
"  that  we  never  heard  of  Betta's  uncle  before," 
but  no  one  minded  the  gossips.  One  fine  day 
a  letter  came  to  the  post-office  in  the  village 
for  Betta's  stupid  old  mother,  who  had  never 
had  a  letter  in  her  life  before.  Her  daughter 
read  it  to  her,  and  all  the  neighbours  soon 
knew  that  the  rich  uncle  was  dead,  and  his 
money,  nearly  two  thousand  francs,  had  come 
to  Betta !  She  was  the  heiress  now,  with  the 
fat  dowry,  and  Rosina,  with  her  strange,  pale 
cheeks,  wept  bitter  tears  on  Rita's  neck,  while 
the  little  dog  looked  at  her  with  kind,  wise, 
brown  eyes,  and  licked  her  pale  hands.  When 
Angelo  asked  Betta  to  marry  him  he  was  very 
humble,  and  the  girl  gave  him  her  hand  as 
she  would  have  thrown  a  dog  a  bone,  not  look- 
ing at  him,  but  with  her  sullen  eyes  turned  the 
other  way.  There  was  music  and  dancing  and 
feasting  at  the  wedding,  and  all  the  village 
came    to   bring  good   wishes   to   the  bride,  all 


1 98  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cciv 

but  the  pale  Rosina,  who  sat  with  the  foolish 
mother  and  the  dog  in  the  little  hut. 

The  winter  came  again,  and  life  grew  harder 

for   the   people   of  the  Commune   of  C ; 

they  grew  poorer  and  poorer  ;  only  Angelo  and 
Betta  had  money,  and  queer  tales  were  told  ot 
the  life  they  led.  "  He  can  buy  drink  now,  and 
he  beats  her,  and  never  works."  This  the 
gossips  said,  shaking  with  cold  the  while,  all 
huddled  together  around  a  scaldino  which 
Rosina  had  bought  long  ago  when  she  was 
rich,  and  had  given  to  a  poor  old  crone  bent 
double  with  the  rheumatism.  Heaven  had 
sent  the  bambino  which  Angelo  had  talked  of 
— a  pretty  dark -eyed  baby  thing,  soft  and 
dimpled  and  smiling,  never  dreaming  what  sort 
of  a  world  it  had  come  to.  When  it  could  just 
toddle  on  two  little  fat  unsteady  legs  the  end 
came  for  Angelo  and  Betta.  He  had  drunk 
until  he  was  more  a  beast  than  a  man,  and  in 
a  fit  of  drunken  fury  he  stabbed  her  and  stabbed 
himself,  and  no  doctor  in  all  the  village  could 
stop  the  life-blood  flowing  so  fast  away  from 
both  husband  and  wife.  Betta's  sullen  eyes 
were  growing  dull,  but  she  could  speak  still, 
and  she  bade  those  around  send  quickly  for 
Rosina.  When  the  pale  face  and  sad  eyes  bent 
pitifully  over  her  she  roused  herself  and  spoke 
quickly,  there  was  so  little  time.  "  I  took  it ;  I 
vowed,  with  the  Diavolo  for  my  witness,  that  I 
would  have  the  dowry  and  Angelo  ;   I  watched 


CO IV        PROSPER  M^PIMAE'S  'INCONNUE  '  199 

the  miller  at  dusk  through  the  window  ;  I  stole 
the  two  thousand  francs  and  locked  the  only 
door  through  which  he  could  escape,  and  the 
house  was  already  in  flames — I  had  arranged 
all  that  before.  Then  I  kept  the  money  quietly 
and  went  to  Turin  and  bought  the  beads  and 
kerchiefs — the    mother    did    not    know — she 

thought  it  was — really — father's  brother " 

The  blood  gushed  out  afresh,  and  Betta's  dull 
eyes  closed  ;  Angelo  was  already  dead. 

"  Mammina  mia"  and  a  wee  hand  pulled 
Rosina's  dress,  while  the  baby  shouted  with 
delight  at  little  shaggy  Rita. 

Just  a  little  of  the  dowry  was  left,  and  the 
miller's  daughter  bought  food  and  clothing  for 
the  child,  and  took  him  home  to  the  hut, 
where  the  foolish  old  mother  crooned  love 
songs  to  him,  and  Rita  tried  to  catch  the  sun- 
beams for  him  as  they  fell  across  the  red  brick 
floor. 

The  priest  of  the  village  told   Lady  M 

the  story,  and  now  Rosina,  with  her  sad  eyes 
and  strange  paleness,  lives  in  a  pretty  warm 
dry  cottage  by  the  great  gate  leading  to  the 
park  in  which  stands  this  house ;  and  the  old 
mother  and  the  child  and  the  dog  are  happy 
all  day  in  the  sunshine.  You  shall  see  them 
when  you  come. 

Unlike  the  Princess  Shehrzad's  tales,  my 
story  is  finished.  It  may  interest  you  when 
you  come  upon  too  much  rabachage  in  Madame 


200  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccvi 

du   Deffand's   Letters.     Adieu,  je  vous  einbrasse 
bien  tendrement,  ]M. 


CCV 


-,  Tth  September  1859. 


Sorry  as  I  am  not  to  see  you  as  soon  as  I 
hoped,  I  am  too  thankful  to  have  you  get  away 
from  Paris,  and  to  know  that  you  are  going  to 
have  change  of  scene  and  change  of  air,  to  say 
a  word  against  your  new  plan.  Only  get 
better,  rest,  amuse  yourself,  above  all  forget  that 
you  cannot  sleep  or  eat,  and  merely  do  both 
without  thinking  about  either !  I  send  this 
hurried  note,  as  you  tell  me  to,  chez  M.  le 
Ministre  d'Etat,  a  Tarbes. 


CCVI 


\Zth  September. 


A  la  bonne  heiire  !  vous  voila  almost  yourself 
again  after  this  little  short  trip  to  the  Pyrenees, 
what  will  you  not  be  should  you  take  a  longer 

voyage  ?      Had   I   not  promised   Lady  M 

to  stay  with  her  until  she  is  ready  to  come  to 
Paris,  I  would  leave  for  that  place  to-day,  so 
much  do  I  want  to  see  you  now  that  "  Richard 
is  himself  aofain." 


covin     PROSPER  M&RIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE 


CCVII 

Paris,  isth  October  1859. 

The  agitation  among  the  clergy  seems  to  be 
increasing,  and  the  Bishops  of  Orleans  and 
Bordeaux  have  both  addressed  discourses  to  the 
emperor,  the  former  being  very  violent.  Have 
you  seen  them  ?  The  Cardinal  Archbishop 
among  other  things  reminded  his  Majesty  of 
what  he  had  formerly  said — '^  La  sonverainet^ 
temporelle  du  Chef  venerable  de  VEglise  est 
mtimeme^it  Hie  a  Veclat  du  Catholicisme^  a  la 
Liberty  et  a  VIndependance  de  V Italie!' 

By  post  to-day  I  send  you  a  little  souvenir 
which  you  will,  I  hope,  find  useful  during  your 
journeyings.  Once  more  I  envy  you  for  being 
in  Madrid — a  place  I  have  never  yet  been  able 
to  reach.      Adieu. 

CCVIII 

Paris,  New  Yeai^s  Eve^  i860. 
Anniversaries  are  not  thoroughly  pleasant 
things,  are  they  ?  They  remind  one  of  too 
many  undertakings  left  unfinished,  too  many 
good  resolutions  broken  ;  and  they  define  too 
clearly  the  widening  gaps  in  life  never  again  to 
be  filled,  the  circle  of  friends  narrowing  with 
such  piteous  speed  and  certainty.  No,  most 
distinctly  I   do   not  like  anniversaries, — let  us 


202  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cci x 

ignore  the  fact  that  this  is  one.  There  is  little 
news,  and  the  weather  is  vile  ;  I  feel  stupid  ;  it 
is  the  night  of  nights  for  reminiscences,  and  as 
I  refuse  to  indulge  in  them,  I  had  far  better 
leave  you  a  fair  white  unwritten  page  than  try 
and  make  conversation  when  the  one  subject  I 
could  most  eloquently  converse  upon  is  streng 
verboten.  I  have  sent  the  books,  et  /attends 
tme  prompte  reponse. 

CCIX 

Paris,  (^th  January  i860. 
What  a  Satanic  little  story  is  this  which  you 
tell  me  of  the  farmer  near  Grasse  who  sent  his 
objectionable  neighbour  to  a  better  world 
merely  by  pronouncing  a  few  mystic  words 
over  three  needles  boiling  in  a  pot !  I  know 
several  people  whom  with  the  greatest  dis- 
interestedness I  would  cheerfully  so  aid  in 
exchanging  the  troubles  and  trials  of  this  life 
for  the  joys  of  an  unknown  state,  were  it  not 
for  fear  of  consequences.  Your  farmer  appar- 
ently lives  on  unharmed,  I  suppose  because  no 
one  really  believes  that  the  spells  he  invoked 
killed  the  neighbour,  which  proves  that  it  is  not 
things  themselves  which  matter,  only  the  opinion 
other  people  have  of  them.  It  was  a  bad  day 
to  tell  me  such  a  tale,  so  wicked  do  I  feel.  If 
some  one  would  only  do  something  to  put  me 
into  a  passion   it  would   be  all  right,   I   could 


ccx         PROSPER  M^RIM&E'S  'INCONNUE'         203 

then  expend  my  cerebral  agitations  upon  a 
legitimate  object ;  as  it  is,  I  shall  probably  do 
much  harm  in  a  self-controlled  and  ladylike 
way,  making  victims  of  innocent  fellow-beings. 
To  relieve  you  of  the  embarrassment  of  a 
limited  selection  of  moral  literature  for  pre- 
sentation to  your  young  friends  in  coming 
years,  I  might  offer  to  write  some  books  my- 
self, were  it  not  for  the  remark  an  Irishman 
once  made  to  me,  that  he  verily  believed  if  I 
ever  did  write  a  book  it  would  be  so  improper 
my  friends  would  refuse  to  let  me  read  it ! 

Yes,  I  gave  the  choice  in  my  selection  to 
"  Olga,"  as  you  requested,  without  asking  why 
you  so  particularly  distinguished  her.  This 
want  of  curiosity  upon  my  part  probably  passed 
unnoticed,  as  so  many  of  my  good  qualities 
seem  to  pass.  Be  careful  when  you  go  to 
Grasse  on  Tuesday  next ;  the  monuments  de 
toute  sorte  are  not  worth  any  extra  fatigue,  and 
you  confess  that  the  sun  at  Cannes  and  the 
surrounding  country  is  treacherous.  You  once 
suggested  that  our  letters  might  one  day  be 
published,  in  mercy  to  a  future  reading  public 
I  hasten  to  close  this  one.      Adieu.  M. 


CCX 

Paris,  "^oth  Ja7iiiary  i860. 
Your  comparison  of  the   emperor  with   the 
shepherds  of  the  Middle  Ages  who  made  wolves 


204  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cox 

dance  to  the  music  of  a  magic  flute  is  not  bad. 
He  is  a  wonderful  man  ;  he  pipes  a  certain 
tune  and  the  workmen  apply  themselves  heart 
and  soul  to  widening  streets  instead  of  barricad- 
ing them  ;  he  changes  the  note  and  the  jour- 
nalists sing  his  praises  instead  of  deriding  his 
policy  ;  and  with  all  classes  it  is  the  same,  his 
shrewdness  in  his  dealings  with  foreign  powers 
calls  forth  commendation  from  statesmen  ;  his 
urbanity  delights  those  called  to  counsel  with 
him  ;  his  social  gifts  charm  the  brilliant  crowds 
thronging  the  entertainments  at  the  Tuileries, 
and  with  it  all  he  is  a  dreamer.  A  wonderfully 
practical  dreamer  if  you  will,  but  still  a  dreamer. 
You  will  see  it  and  believe  it  one  day,  mon  ami, 
perhaps  too  late. — I  can  quite  credit  the  fact 
that  if  they  did  name  all  the  members  of  the 
sacred  college  it  would  be  to  you  ^'' fort  ^gal" 
providing  you  were  not  obliged  to  listen  to 
their  sermons,  because,  ami  infiniment  cher,  you 
are  not  pious.  It  is  with  regret  that  I  write 
the  words,  they  are  so  painfully  true.  Were 
you  so,  even  in  the  most  superficial  sense,  you 
would  remember  the  fite  of  la  Sainte  Eulalie, 
which,  I  feel  convinced,  you  have  forgotten. 
Do  you  not  know  that  it  comes  on  the  iith 
or  1 2  th?  Shall  I  get  something  pretty  in  the 
way  of  Byzantine  jewellery,  for  your  cousin,  and 
send  it  to  you  ? 

I  am  engrossed  in   politics  ;  they  alternately 
bewilder    and    amuse    me,    they,    being    quite 


ccxi        PROSPER  M&RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '         205 

strictly  interpreted,  standing  for  politicians 
rather  than  politics  proper.  One,  at  least  an 
humble- minded  woman  like  myself  with  a 
proper  reverence  for  the  sterner  sex,  has  such 
an  exalted  opinion  of  a  male  mortal  who  un- 
dertakes in  whatever  form  to  reform  and  regene- 
rate mankind  ;  I  look  for  something  so  much 
nobler  than  the  mere  ordinary  man,  with  aims 
all  pure  and  efforts  all  disinterested,  and  what 
I  find  bewilders  me.  Then  I  come  closer  and 
gravely  investigate,  and  my  discoveries  turn  the 
bewilderment  to  amusement.  You  will  prob- 
ably call  this  silly,  but  so  much  that  I  write 
must,  from  your  standpoint,  be  more  than  silly. 
Do  you  know,  I  find  it  a  great  proof  of  your 
affection  for  me  that  you  can  endure  so  much 
nonsense  from  me,  and  when  I  stop  to  think 
seriously  of  the  matter  I  am  amazed  that  I  dare 
write  to  you,  not  only  as  I  do,  but  at  all.  Re- 
flection, however,  reminds  me  that  I  have  so 
long  now  been  your  ami  feminin,  and  that  re- 
lationship solves  so  many  wonderings.  You 
ask  me  when  my  fite  comes  ;  I  have  none. 
You  ask  my  name,  is  it  not  L Inconmie  ? 


CCXI 
Paris,  I'jth  February  i860. 

Do  you  remember  the  maxim  which  Madame 
de  Sdvigne  says  in  a  letter  to  her  daughter  that 


2o6  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ccxi i 

she  made  off-hand,  and  Hked  so  well  she  fancied 
she  had  taken  it  from  M.  de  la  Rochefoucauld  ? 
It  was,  if  I  mistake  not,  "  Ingratitude  begets  re- 
proach, as  acknowledgment  begets  new  favours." 
You  were  so  grateful  for  my  offer  to  help 
you  safely  over  ^^  fete  of  Sainte  Eulalie  and 
its  accompanying  gift,  that  I  hasten  to  send  a 
Byzantine  clasp,  which  will,  I  think,  faire  voire 
affaire.  Let  me  know  if  you  receive  it  safely. 
It  complies  tolerably  well  with  all  your  condi- 
tions, is  not  too  modern  or  too  voyante,  has 
the  air  of  costing  more  than  I  paid  for  it,  and 
has  not  given  me  any  trouble  at  all.  Am  I 
comprehensive,  do  I  reply  as  categorically  as 
the  neat  little  numbers  in  your  letter  would 
suggest,  are  you  satisfied  with  me  so  far  as 
executing  commissions  goes  ?  If  so,  I  have  not 
lived  in  vain.  M. 


CCXII 

Paris,  29M  February. 

'Tis  good  to  be  alive  to-day,  for  the  spring 
has  come  to  peep  at  us  behind  the  skirts  of 
winter,  and  kissed  her  hands  to  us  while  the 
cold  and  sleet  and  snow  were  for  a  moment  off 
duty.  The  little  feathered  lovers  in  the  trees 
are  as  open  in  their  wooing  as  though  leafy 
foliage  screened  their  indiscreet  confessions,  in- 
stead of  bare  brown  branches  holding  them  up 


ocxii       PROSPER  MERIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  207 

to  the  derision  of  pessimists  and  cynics.  Their 
chirpings  and  twitterings  are  all  perfectly  clear 
to  me,  while  they  know  that  I  sympathise  with 
them,  and  by  the  very  way  in  which  they  turn 
their  heads  to  one  side  and  look  at  me  with 
bright  round  eyes,  I  understand  that  they  wish 
me  well  because  of  my  sympathy.  They  are 
glad,  as  I  am,  that  spring  is  coming  soon  to 
stay,  and  with  it  birds  and  travellers  from  the 
south  ;  birds  for  them  to  twitter  to,  and  one 
dear  traveller  for  me  to  welcome  home  again. 
Do  be  careful  not  to  overtire  yourself  on  the 
journey. 

I  have  at  one  and  the  same  time  been  told  a 
most  exciting  secret,  and  been  bound  over  to 
keep  the  peace  by  not  divulging  it.  For  a 
daughter  of  Eve  this  is  trying.  Of  course  I 
mean  to  keep  the  solemn  promises  so  solemnly 
made  that  I  will  never,  never  repeat  what  I  have 
heard,  so  do  not  ask  me  to  share  my  knowledge 
with  you.  Personally  I  have  a  theory  that  a 
secret  is  safe  only  when  known  to  three  persons 
two  of  whom  are  dead,  but  really,  I  do  mean  to 
try  and  keep  this  particular  one  inviolate.  I 
direct  this  to  Marseilles,  poste  restante,  as  you  tell 
me  to,  and  I  live  for  the  first  week  in  March. 
What  a  great  thing  it  is  to  be  happy,  every- 
thing is  then  so  possible.      A  bientot. 


2o8  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ocxiii 

CCXIII 

London,  \st  April  i860. 
It  was  just  as  well  for  me  that  I  saw  so 
much  of  you  in  Paris,  as  the  agreeable  remem- 
brance of  having  done  so  may  enable  me  to 
survive  the  ennuies  I  suffer  here.  I  have  been 
independent  too  long  to  live  in  other  people's 
houses  when  the  people  are  relations,  and  when 
those  relations  have  valued  old  family  servants 
to  whom  they  are  bound  to  show  consideration. 
Such  an  one  is  at  the  present  time  turning  a 
fairly  comfortable  world  into  a  very  unenvi- 
able place  as  a  residence,  and  rapidly  convert- 
ing an  amiably -inclined  individual  (myself) 
into  an  irritable,  distracted,  and  distracting 
specimen  of  outraged  human  nature.  Write  to 
me  quickly,  one  of  your  long  amusing  letters, 
tell  me  of  your  dinners  and  balls  and  something 
enlivening,  that  I  may  be  able  to  endure  this 
compulsory  visit  of  one  whole  month  to  uncon- 
genial people.  I  would  send  you  a  ' poisson 
d'Avril  did  such  things  exist  in  London,  but 
they  do  not ;  no  one  gives  pretty  or  amusing 
presents  on  the  1st  of  April,  they  only  some- 
times perpetrate  very  stupid  jokes.  My  April 
joke  is  to  find  myself  where  I  am,  and  the  pro- 
portions of  it  will  last  me  for  some  time  to 
come.  You  see  I  am  diabolically  cross,  but  I 
ask  you  how,  under  the  circumstances,  could  I 
be  anything  else  ?     You  in   Paris  well,  cheerful, 


ccxvi      PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE'         209 

and  amusing  yourself;  I  in  London  bound  to 
consult  the  fancies  and  prejudices  of  a  narrow- 
minded  old  aunt  and  four  spinster  cousins. 
Just  why  I  allow  myself  to  be  so  imposed  upon 
is  what  puzzles  your  most  moral  and  conser- 
vative M. 

CCXIV 

London,  yih  April  i860. 
Ah,  why  did  I  come  here  !  The  springlike 
weather  makes  me  long  for  our  woods,  and 
your  letter  is  too  cheerful  ;  you  do  not  miss 
me  half  enough.  Alfred  de  Musset's  words 
haunt  me — 

"  Le  temps  emporte  sur  son  aile 
Et  le  printemps  et  I'Hirondelle, 
Et  la  vie  et  les  jours  perdus." 

I  will  not  quote  the  last  line  of  the  verse  ;  it 
would  be  equally  untrue  and  ungrateful.  But 
write  to  me. 

ccxv 

(Letter  missing) 


CCXVI 

London,  ^th  May. 
There  is  but  one  drawback  in  reading  your 
letters,  I   so  dread   coming  to  the  end  of  them. 
P 


2IO  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ccxvi 

The  last,  telling  of  the  ball  at  the  Hotel  d'Albe, 
was  delightful  ;  how  good  of  you  to  spare  so 
much  time  for  the  details  which  you  knew 
would  delight  my  feminine  heart.  \i yotc  found 
the  women  decolletees  (Ttine  fagon  oiitrageiise,  it 
must  have  been  a  trifle  strong  for  the  rest  of 
humanity.  The  fashion  has  not  yet  crossed 
the  Channel ;  we  are  still  very  decent  here,  if 
not  a  trifle  prudish.  It  often  strikes  me  as 
odd  that  so  narrow  a  stretch  of  water  should 
separate  such  entirely  different  customs,  manners, 
and  moralities  in  the  two  nations  of  England 
and  France.  Even  the  shape  of  a  Paris  bonnet 
is  modified  before  it  pleases  the  London  beauty, 
and  a  roomful  of  English  grande  dames  will 
demurely  look  down  their  noses  at  a  risqiU 
French  story  which  would  merely  make  their 
piqiiante  neighbours  across  the  stream  laugh 
heartily ;  and  yet  human  nature  is  terribly 
alike  wherever  it  exists.  Ati,  fond,  we  are  not 
one  bit  more  moral  than  you,  only  ,  we  are 
taught  "  properer  manners,"  as  my  old  nurse 
used  to  say.  I  have  no  equivalent  exchange 
for  your  Paris  scandals,  although  I  rejoice  to 
say  that  my  visit  to  the  aunts  and  cousins  is 
over,  safely  over  too,  for  which  I  take  no  small 
credit  to  myself.  I  allowed  my  digestion  to 
be  thoroughly  upset  once  a  week  by  having 
the  hour  of  every  meal  changed,  and  eating  a 
cold  meat  dinner  in  the  middle  of  the  day  on 
Sundays.      I   forbore  to  mention  your  name,  or 


cox VI      PROSPER  M'^RIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE'         211 

to  dwell  upon  the  little  differences  between 
foreign  and  English  life.  I  came  down  to 
breakfast  punctually  ;  read  my  letters  stolidly 
under  fire  of  ten  pairs  of  inquisitive  eyes 
who  darted  silent  disapprobation  at  the  foreign 
stamps  and  thin  paper  ;  in  short,  by  the  miracu- 
lous aid  of  a  kind  Providence,  I  lived  through 
a  month  of  the  dullest  possible  existence, 
formed  of  narrow  respectability  and  respectable 
narrowness  as  regards  life  in  its  every  phase. 
Now  I  breathe  again,  and  the  world  seems 
alive  once  more.  You  will  smile  when  you 
learn  what  kept  me  from  absolute  collapse 
during  my  duty  visit ;  it  was  an  almost  daily 
stroll  to  that  grand  silent  resting-place  of  the 
dead  and  shrine  of  worship  for  the  living — 
beautiful,  shadowy,  dreamy  Westminster  Abbey. 
You  see  I  was  careful  to  seek  out  no  worldly 
acquaintances  during  my  penitential  retreat  at 
the  aunt's,  who  is  a  kind  old  soul  after  all  said 
and  done  ;  therefore  much  spare  time  remained 
upon  my  hands,  and  I  employed  it  in  wandering 
through  the  Poets'  Corner  and  reading  the 
names  of  those  glorious  gifted  ones  who  have 
sung  of  joy  and  sorrow,  love  and  death,  touch- 
ing men's  hearts  to  quick  sympathy  and  sooth- 
ing many  an  hour  of  pain  or  weariness.  To 
write  something  that  will  live  after  one !  To 
pen  even  a  few  words  which,  whenever  read, 
must  bring  a  throb  of  restful  pleasure  to  a 
human   heart,  that  may  help  one  child  of  earth 


212  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ccxv i 

amid  the  endless  grind  of  earthly  toil  ;  is  this 
not  ambition  well  employed  ?  You  who  are 
doing  all  this,  do  you  not  feel  glad  that  it  has 
been  given  you  to  do  ?  From  where  the  poets 
lie  in  the  old  Abbey  it  is  not  far  to  the  tombs 
of  kings  and  queens  with  heads  uncrowned  by 
death  and  laid  low  as  any  common  commoner. 
Mere  worldly  greatness  does  not  seem  to  me 
one -half  so  worth  the  having  as  greatness  of 
mind  and  soul,  yet  see  the  crowd  cheer  and 
hail  the  one  while  the  other  is  worshipped  only 
by  a  few.  And  when  tout  le  monde  approves, 
why,  it  is  much,  it  is  everything  ;  one  is  always 
fool  enough  to  be  governed  by  public  opinion. 
If  we  are  ever  in  London  together,  you  and  I, 
you  must  come  with  me  to  Westminster  Abbey 
and  explain  it  to  me  architecturally,  for  I 
regret  to  say  I  am  painfully  ignorant  of  the 
very  first  principles  of  architecture.  I  love  the 
place,  and  love  to  ramble  along  its  aisles  and 
its  quiet  corners,  to  look  far  up  among  the 
arches  -and  listen  to  the  organ's  peal  rolling 
through  the  building  from  corner  to  corner  and 
end  to  end  ;  but  I  love  all  this  with  sensation 
and  feelijig,  not  understanding — this  latter  you 
must  teach  me. 


CCXVII 

(Letter  missing) 


ccxviii     PROSPER  MP.RIMAE'S'INCONNUE'       213 

CCXVIII 

London,  ist July  i860. 

The  crossing  to-day  was,  without  exception, 
the  worst  I  have  ever  made.  It  is  a  matter  of 
positive  amazement  to  me  how  the  two  nations 
of  the  earth,  professing  to  be  the  most  civiHsed 
and  to  know  how  to  Hve  more  comfortably  than 
their  neighbours,  will,  year  in  and  year  out, 
traverse  that  wretched  Channel  in  boats  which 
could  not  have  been  worse  in  the  dark  ages,  if 
that  period  of  time  knew  anything  about  boats. 
Two  hours  of  mortal  misery  to  be  endured 
every  time  an  Englishman  wishes  to  dine  in 
Paris  or  a  Frenchman  proposes  to  visit  John 
Bull  in  his  tight  little  island  ;  it  really  seems 
absurd.  To-day  the  sea  was  rough,  and  a  cold 
drizzling  rain  made  the  misery  more  miserable. 
You  could  take  your  choice  of  shivering  on  a 
wet  windy  deck  or  suffocating  in  the  bad  air  of 
a  musty  cabin,  sights  and  sounds  ghastly  in 
their  disgusting  distinctness  being  thrown  in 
gratis  in  whichever  place  you  elected  to  put 
yourself.  A  young  married  couple  were  cross- 
ing, at  least  they  looked  young  and  very  newly 
married  when  they  came  on  board — fresh  new 
travelling  suits  to  match  their  fresh  new  con- 
jugal manners  and  unmistakably  new- married 
little  ways — but  oh,  the  change  as  we  neared 
the  white  cliffs  of  Dover  !      The  hapless  Marie 


214  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxix 

Stuart  could  not  have  regretted  leaving  her 
"  belle  France  "  more  bitterly  than  did  the  poor 
little  rumpled  sea-sick  bride,  while  every  illusion 
she  had  ever  possessed  as  to  the  personal 
charms  of  her  new  husband  must  have  been 
shaken  to  their  very  foundations  with  one  glance 
at  his  green  woe -begone  countenance  from 
which  sea-sickness  had  driven  all  the  assured 
air  of  the  conqueror  and  successful  proprietor. 
And  to  think  of  crossing  again  to-morrow  when 

I  go  with  Lady  M to  by  the  sea, 

where  she  fancies  the  air  will  do  wonders  for 
her !  London  is  all  mud,  and  the  season  is 
practically  over  ;  I  shall  like better,  al- 
though the  place  is  new  to  me.  Let  me  know 
your  plans.  What  a  passion  for  separation  we 
have,  considering  that  we  are  supposed  to  care 
about  one  another.     Adieu. 


CCXIX 


yihjuly  i860. 


I  much  doubt  whether  the  get  -  up  of  a 
croqiLe-mort  would  suit  you,  and  all  men  in 
deep  mourning  have  a  horribly  suggestive 
appearance  of  undertakers,  donc^  not  to  see  you 
in  the  funeral  procession  of  Prince  Jerome  does 
not  bring  the  amount  of  regret  with  it  which 
you  seem  to  think  it  ought  to.  I  can  fancy 
you   in   other  roles  far  more  to  my  taste  than 


rcxxi      PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '  215 

anything  so  melancholy  as  this,  and  on  principle 
I  dislike  interments.  Remember,  when  I  die  I 
wish  to  be  cremated.  This  I  write  in  all 
seriousness.  To  begin  with,  it  is  clean,  and  I 
hold  strongly  to  the  belief  that  cleanliness  is 
next  to  godliness.  Then,  however  fair  dead 
persons  may  look  in  that  last  still  sleep,  the 
knowledge  that  the  seeds  of  corruption  are 
within  them  is  too  horrible.  Think  of  the 
slow  decay,  the  rotting  of  flesh,  the  hideous 
change,  the  loathsome  gnawing  worm,  the  foul 

creeping,  slimy  things faugh  !   all  these  give 

the  lie  to  the  pure  pale  beauty  of  the  dead, 
and  if  life  must  be  false,  in  pity  let  its  end 
end  the  falseness  ;  have  done  with  shams,  and 
look  and  be  what  it  really  is  !  So  burn  me 
when  I  die,  that  I  may  at  least  be  clean  and 
not  food  for  worms. 


ccxx 

(Letter  missing) 


CCXXI 

,  list  July. 

When  you  are  in  a  rage  you  are  so  delightful 
that  the  temptation  to  infuriate  you  is  almost 
more  than  I  can  resist.  For  a  long  long  time 
now  I  have  not  had  so  charming  a  letter  as  the 
one  lying  open  before  me,  which  closes  with  the 


2i6  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxxi 

words,  ^^ Je  stcis  vraimeiit  de  bien  mauvaise 
hmneiir  contre  voiis"  My  conscience  tells  me 
sternly  that  I  deserve  every  one  of  your 
reproaches,  while  my  vanity  whispers  in  delici- 
ously  soothing  tones,  "  See  how  he  misses  your 
letters  when  you  fail  to  write — he  so  fears  to 
lose  them  that  angry  as  he  is  he  tells  you  that 
you  are  the  ^' grand  motif  determinant''  of  all 
his  plans,  that  no  change  of  programme  will  be 
a  sacrifice  if  it  conduces  to  a  speedy  meeting 
with  you  ;  that  he  would  throw  over  every 
engagement  and  return  to  Paris  to-morrow  if 
you  said  that  you  would  be  there.  O  dear 
vanity,  how  could  I  live  without  her !  It  was 
not  nice  of  me,  I  confess,  to  neglect  writing,  but 
how  often  have  I  told  you  that  when  living 
with  the  sea  I  am  not  responsible  for  my 
actions  ?  If  we  have  all  existed  in  a  previous 
state  in  some  other  form  of  animal  or  bird  or 
spirit,  I  know  what  I  was, — a  mermaid.  The 
whole  thing  becomes  clear  to  me  as  I  write  the 
words.  I  was  born  in  a  grotto  below  the  sea, 
the  walls  of  a  pale  shimmering  green  with  opal 
lights  flashing  through  it,  the  roof  of  branching 
coral,  the  floor  fine  silvery  sand.  Great  pearls 
lay  here  and  there  in  dreamy  moonlight  white- 
ness, and  faintly-tinted  grasses  waved  lightly 
near  the  grotto's  opening.  What  a  gay  careless 
life  it  was,  playing  with  baby  wavelets  and 
sporting  in  the  surf,  the  cool  spray  falling  on 
hair  and  eyes  and  lips  like  kisses  in  a  dream. 


ccxxi      PROSPER  M^RIM&E'S  " INCONNUE'         217 

And  in  the  starlight  how  amusing  it  was  to 
mount  to  the  world  above  and  watch  the  ships 
go  by  as  we  sat  on  the  rocks  and  sang  for  the 
tired  mariners.  Oh  no,  it  was  not  half  a  bad 
sort  of  a  life,  that  of  a  mermaid  under  the  sea. 
No  care  or  responsibility,  no  fighting  between 
good  and  evil,  that  wearing  ceaseless  struggle 
which  seems  to  know  no  end. 

How  can  you  regret  an  owl  ?  What  odd 
tastes  you  have  in  your  selection  of  animal  pets. 
Long  ago,  do  you  remember,  in  almost  the  first 
letter  I  ever  wrote  to  you,  I  sententiously 
remarked  that  an  owl  which  had  been  in  your 
company  had  failed  to  impart  its  traditional 
wisdom  to  you?  Oh  what  queer  proper  little 
letters  I  used  to  write  !  I  feel  sure  that  you  must 
have  smiled  one  of  your  fine  cynical  smiles 
when  you  read  them.  In  those  days  we 
promised  each  other  such  amusing  things  ;  you 
swore  never  to  make  love  to  me,  and  gave  me 
wise  reasons  to  prove  how  impossible  it  was 
that  I  should  find  you  lovable,  and  I  treated 
with  noble  scorn  your  suggestions  that  if  I 
married  any  one  else  I  was  bound  to  love  you 
in  the  end.      Do  you  remember  ? 

Algiers  still  tempts  me,  and  I  have  by  no 
means  abandoned  the  idea  of  wintering  there, 
and  I  am  very  clear  in  my  mind  that  I  am  not 
coming  to  England  at  present ;  on  these  two 
points  you  cannot  say  that  I  do  not  give  you 
information.       No  one   is    quite  all  bad,   even 


2 1 8  AN  A  UTHOR 'S  LO  VE  ccxxTi 

1  have  a  few  redeeming  points,  one  of  which 
is  that  in  spite  of  all  your  faults  I  love  you 
still,  as  a  greater  mortal  than  I  once  said  of 
England. 

CCXXII 

,    ith  August  i860. 

Well,  it  is  almost  decided  that  we  go  to 
Algiers,  and  I  am  not  wholly  convinced  that  it 
is  the  best  thing  to  do,  which  means  that  I  am 
in  a  horrid  state  of  uncertainty  and  am  half 
sorry  that  I  promised  my  valuable  companion- 
ship for  the  expedition.  I  wish  I  could  have 
helped  you  in  selecting  the  dresses  and  bonnets, 
for  I  have  no  doubt  that  you  made  a  fine 
muddle  of  it  all,  and  agree  with  you  that  it  is 
not  unlikely  the  "  dogs  of  France "  will  run 
after  the  unfortunates  who  are  obliged  to  wear 
the  garments  of  your  unassisted  choosing. 
Voilct  an  idea  for  this  happy  souvenir  which  is 
to  remain  with  us  after  parting.  .  .  . 

Have  you  only  just  discovered  that  all  men 
(not  merely  Englishmen)  look  uncommonly 
alike  when  dressed  in  habits  noirs  and  cravates 
blanches  ?  Mori  amiy  if  you  had  ever  asked  a 
noble  guest  to  get  you  a  glass  of  champagne, 
as  I  once  did,  mistaking  him  for  a  domestique^ 
you  would  know  that  this  resemblance  reaches 
confusingly  far.  Will  no  man  assert  himself 
and  refuse  to  dress  like  the  twin  of  a  gargojt  de 


ccxx  r V    PR  OSPER  MARIMAE  'S  '  INCONNUE  '         219 

cafe?  Think  how  well  you  would  look  in 
velvet  and  point  lace  attired  as  a  gentleman  of 
the  olden  times,  while  no  costume  ever  invented 
is  so  trying  as  the  present  regulation  full  dress 
for  a  man. 

Surely  you  cannot  be  serious  when  you  say 
that  people  in  England  speak  of  war  and  a 
French  annexation  !  absurd.  I  send  this  to  1 8 
Arlington  Street,  et  je  voiis  embrasse. 


CCXXIII 

(Letter  missing) 

CCXXIV 

Lestaque,  \2th  September. 

With  this  I  send  you  a  photograph  of  myself, 
which  will  make  those  adieux  to  you  which  it 
is  impossible  for  me  to  make  in  person.  I 
regret  that  we  could  arrange  no  meeting ;  you 
will  think  it  my  fault — I  find  it  a  little  yours 
also  ;  but  we  will  not  quarrel  just  as  a  long 
journey  is  to  part  us  still  more  completely, 
although  we  have  a  genius  for  parting  even  if 
the  space  be  small.  Send  me  your  commissions, 
and  I  will  do  my  best  to  execute  them  in  the 
excellent  manner  you  yourself  employ.  How 
I  should  dislike  you  if  you  were  not  generous. 
There  ought  to  be  a  law  putting  all  mean  men 


220  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxxv 

to  death — they  are  one  of  the  most  un3eemly 
blots  in  a  tolerably  well  regulated  world.  A 
mean  woman  is  a  pitiable  sight  enough,  but  a 
mean  man  seems  to  exceed  it  in  pitiableness, 
he  always  produces  upon  me  a  sense  of  intense 
fatigue.  I  expect  a  photograph  in  return. 
Will  you  not  please  go  promptly  and  have  one 
taken  ? 

CCXXV 

13M  September  i860. 
No  letters  ;  of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  I 
gave  you  a  carefully-prepared  plan  of  our  route 
on  purpose  that  there  might  be  no  danger  of 
missing  news  from  you,  and  I  hear  nothing ; 
write,  or  I  will  tell  you  nothing.  Yesterday 
as  we  drove  along  just  as  the  day  was  falling, 

Madame  de  C slept,  and   I,  wide  awake, 

dreamed.  And  my  dream  was  that  I  was  great 
and  famous.  I  had  won  a  name  that  echoed 
far  and  wide,  conquered  a  place  in  this  over- 
crowded world  which  was  pleasantly  apart  from 
the  toilers  and  strugglers  still  fighting  for  space. 
With  a  calm  restful  loftiness  I  watched  them 
pressing  and  hurrying  on,  some  with  great  gaunt 
eyes  and  hollow  cheeks,  fiercely  determined  to 
win  or  to  die  ;  others  beaten  back  and  trampled 
down  so  often  that  each  effort  they  made  to 
rise  was  feebler  than  the  last ;  and  more  still 
crushed  into  a  stupid  stolid  hopelessness.      The 


ccxxv     PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE'         221 

men  who  spurned  all  these  crowded  to  me, 
taking  eagerly  anything  that  I  would  give, 
grateful  for  the  very  words  over  which  they 
once  had  cavilled  and  hesitated,  and  finally  re- 
fused, a  fact  they  now  cleverly  ignored.  At 
first  no  child  with  a  new  toy  could  have  been 
more  hugely  pleased  than  was  I  with  this  pretty 
plaything  called  success.  I  laughed  aloud 
when  those  before  whom  I  once  had  trembled, 
waiting  anxiously  for  their  autocratic  verdict, 
now  with  deep  respect  waited  upon  my  whims, 
and  it  vastly  pleased  me  to  give  them  that  which 
I  knew  my  name  alone  made  valuable,  but  which 
they  took  gratefully,  reverently,  as  though  all 
worth  and  merit  were  enfolded  in  its  pages. 
All  this  at  first  amused  me,  but  gradually  a 
slow  contempt  came  for  the  very  people  whose 
opinion  I  had  once  highly  valued  and  con- 
scientiously tried  to  win.  That  which  I  knew 
to  be  good  honest  work,  written  with  a  long- 
ing purpose  to  accomplish  some  good  in  the 
world,  to  give  some  help  to  humanity,  even  if  it 
were  only  a  smile  to  cheer,  all  this  had  been 
counted  as  nothing  worth,  I  had  no  name  to 
stamp  upon  the  wares  offered  for  sale,  no 
patent  sign  to  attract  attention  and  win  ignorant 
praise.  But  now — how  all  was  changed.  Any 
worthless  trash  I  might  scribble  with  thought- 
less haste  brought  me  gold,  and  men  contended 
which  should  pay  the  most  gold  to  capture  it, 
and  once  obtained  they  treated  it  kindly,  decked 


222  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxxv 

it  out  bravely,  and  stamping  it  with  my  name, 
my  famous  world-wide  name,  they  flaunted  it 
abroad  and  men  hastened  to  share  it  with  them, 
and  pronounce  loudly  to  all  who  would  hear 
how  wise  and  clever  and  brilliant  a  thing  this 
was,  this  trash  stamped  with  a  name.  And 
then  I  scorned  myself  more  than  the  silly  fools 
around  me.  After  the  scorn  a  bitter  sadness 
came :  what  mattered  now  all  this  flashing 
notoriety  and  fulsome  flattery  from  people  who 
never  cared  before  ?  Those  who  had  lovingly 
followed  every  step  I  took  along  the  thorny 
road  to  fame,  who  had  helped  me  with  a  fond 
belief  in  me,  a  warm  sympathy  when  disappoint- 
ment came,  a  glad  sincere  delight  at  every  little 
gleam  of  success,  these,  so  many  of  them,  were 
gone,  and  gone  before  they  knew  what  the  end 
would  be.  They  would  have  cared  so  much, 
and  they  never  knew  ;  what  did  it  matter  now, 
what  was  the  good  of  it  all,  it  came  so  late ! 

Oh  tell  me,  you  who  know,  tell  me,  is  this 
all  that  fame  can  do  at  the  end  ?  After  years 
of  hope  and  toil  and  strong  belief  and  final 
victory,  does  all  the  warm  glow  and  flush  of 
success  flicker  and  pale  and  fade  to  dull  regret 
that  it  comes  too  late?  Hot  smarting  tears 
came  as  we  drove  on  in  the  still  twilight,  the 
utter  hopelessness  of  it  all  seemed  to  spread 
over  me  like  a  pall,  and  weigh  me  down  with 
its  stifling  sadness,  and  it  seemed  so  real,  I  was 
so  wide  awake  that    I   could   hardly  persuade 


ccxxvi    PROSPER  MARIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'         223 

myself  I  had  never  struggled  for  fame,  therefore 
why,  in  heaven's  name,  should  gain  or  loss  of 
fame  disturb  me  ?  I  had  no  wish  to  write  for 
men's  approval,  for  no  man's,  only  one,  and  well 
I  knew  how  kind  a  judgment  every  word  I 
wrote  for  him  was  sure  to  win.  And  I  wanted  no 
name  to  stamp  on  anything,  only  the  one  he  gave 
me,  "  LInconmiel'  which  so  long  a  time  ago  was 
graven  on  his  heart.  A  silly,  silly  waking  dream 
it  was  for  me  to  dream  at  twilight,  was  it  not  ? 


CCXXVI 

Algiers,  29M  September  i860. 

How  can  I  tell  you  what  I  think  of  your  lost 
letters  when  I  have  never  seen  them  ?  Why, 
you  ask  a  question  almost  as  silly  as  my  waking 
dream  !  Decidenient^  mon  ami,  you  have  lost 
your  head  as  completely  as  the  good  people  of 
Marseilles  did  over  the  sight  of  the  emperor, 
and  they  were  painfully  far  gone.  The  fetes 
were  worth  seeing,  and  his  Majesty  cannot  com- 
plain of  any  want  of  loyalty  on  the  part  of 
his  Marseillais.  You  ask  me  for  descriptions 
of  what  I  see  and  my  impressions  of  Oriental 
life.  Where  can  I  begin  and  how  properly 
answer  ?  I  am  rather  bewildered  with  the 
startling  contrasts  of  pompous  splendour  and 
feeble  absurdity  in  the  things  around  me.  The 
approach  to  this   place  was  a  thing  of  perfect 


224  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxxvi 

beauty,  for  we  arrived  at  sunrise,  and  the  lines 
came  at  once  to  my  mind — 

"  Le  soleil  se  levait,  Alger  nous  apparut, 
Salut  terre  d'Afrique,  k  ton  beau  ciel  salut ! " 

As  our  vessel  glided  into  the  still  waters  of 
the  port  everything  was  shadowy,  vague,  mysteri- 
ous ;  slowly  a  pale  gold  light  spread  over  sea 
and  sky  and  the  indistinct  outlines  of  an  amphi- 
theatre of  hills  rising  behind  and  around  a 
silent  white  town,  which  looked  in  the  distance 
like  a  line  of  foam  on  sand.  Then  a  tinge  of 
blue  crept  into  the  golden  light,  deepening  in 
colour  as  it  came,  and  a  faint  soft  rose  tint, 
which  also  deepened  as  it  spread  until  the 
heavens  were  one  refulgent  glow  of  brilliant 
colour  and  the  horizon  grew  more  and  more 
luminous  as  the  god  of  light  himself  rose  with 
slow  majesty  behind  the  Djurajura  mountains. 
At  this  moment  the  full  glory  of  an  African 
sunrise  was  before  us,  bathing  white  Algiers  as 
it  rose  from  the  sparkling  waters  in  an  exquisite 
rosy  blushing  light.  Then  came  a  motley 
crew  of  Arabs,  Spaniards,  Maltese,  and  Kabyles, 
shouting  in  an  undistinguishable  jargon  of 
hybrid  patois,  men  with  dark  faces  and 
picturesque  costumes,  all  clamouring  for  our 
goods  and  chattels.  And  oh  the  queer  old 
Arab  town  with  its  modern  French  half  that 
Algiers  is  when  in  spite  of  the  polyglot  confusion 
you  at  last  reach  it;  and  oh  the  palms,  the  grace- 


ccxxvi    PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '         223 

ful  Eastern  palms  which  until  now  I  have  only 
seen  in  my  dream  of  the  desort ;  and  oh  the 
plants  and  flowers,  and  orange  and  olive  groves, 
and  the  beautiful  vineyards  !  I  ask  again  how 
am  I  to  describe  all  these  !  One  must  see  Algiers 
to  know  its  perfumed  beauty,  its  luxurious 
wealth  of  wild  flowers,  its  pepper  trees  and 
myrtle,  its  great  bunches  of  scarlet  poinsettias, 
and  fragrant  waxy  magnolias,  its  lemon  trees 
and  cypresses.  If  you  wish  warm,  fragrant, 
golden  loveliness,  you  must  come  to  Algiers, 
with  sea  in  front  and  mountains  behind  and 
sunshine  over  all ! 

There  is  an  immense  difference  in  the  old 
and  the  new  part,  the  latter  inhabited  by  the 
French  being  all  excitement  and  bustle,  gay, 
amusing,  vivacious ;  the  former  silent  and 
solemn,  the  people  self-contained,  with  grave 
sad  faces,  while  over  all  falls  the  veil  of  mystery 
which  always  envelops  an  Eastern  people. 
The  Arab  women  are  graceful,  but  in  their 
regular  features  there  is  but  little  expression  or 
soul,  and  a  strange  resemblance  exists  in  them 
all.  Only  two  distinct  passions  gleam  from  their 
dark  eyes,  love  and  hate,  there  is  nothing  be- 
tween, no  finer  shades.  We  have  already  -been 
inside  a  harem  and  seen  these  Eastern  beauties 
unveiled  ;  poor  things,  what  a  life  they  must 
lead,  it  would  be  all  hate  with  me  if  I  were 
unlucky  enough  to  be  in  their  place !  But  my 
letter  is  growing  to  an  alarming  length,  and  as 
Q 


226  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxxvn 

I  do  not  wish  you  to  find   it  like  a  leaf  out  of 
a  guide-book,  I  will  write  quickly  FiN. 


CCXXVII 

Algiers,  3^  October  i860. 
No.  5. 

I  still  revel  in  all  the  beauty  of  nature  and 
colour  and  picturesqueness,  in  this  entrancing 
African  warmth  and  brightness.  To-day  we 
visited  the  Mosque  of  Dja-ma-el-Djedid.  Do  you 
find  the  name  musical?  A  commoner  way  of  call- 
ing it  is  the  Mosque  of  the  Pecherie.  It  is  dazz- 
lingly  white,  and  oddly  enough  is  built  in  the 
form  of  a  Latin  Cross.  To  explain  this  there  is 
a  legend  telling  that  the  designer  of  the  building 
was  a  Genoese,  a  Christian  slave  who  was  forced 
by  the  Moslems  to  work.  He  revenged  himself 
for  their  cruelty  by  an  ingenious  device,  namely, 
the  manner  in  which  he  designed  this  building, 
perpetrating  in  the  Mahomedan  temple  the 
symbol  of  his  own  Christian  faith.  When  the 
Mussulmen  discovered  in  what  fashion  he  had 
carried  out  their  orders  they  were  furious,  and  put 
him  to  a  hideously  cruel  death  by  impalement. 

Some  of  the  Moorish  houses  here  are  the 
most  luxurious  and  shadowy  bits  of  seclusion, 
with  cool  open  courts  shaded  by  vines  or  ivy 
which  is  trained  up  the  sides  of  the  building. 
In    these   courts   you    see   the   dwellers  in  the 


ccxxvii      PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S  'INCONNUE'     227 

house  sitting  on  soft  carpets,  and  splashing  bare 
naked  feet  in  the  fountain  which  drips  cease- 
lessly with  a  soothing  monotony.  But  few  of 
the  windows  of  the  houses  open  on  the  streets, 
and  these  few  are  jealously  defended  by  bars 
and  close  gratings.  There  are  quantities  of 
Jews  in  the  place,  and  some  of  the  Jewish 
women  are  lovely.  Their  ordinary  dress  is  a 
simple  blue,  or  brown,  or  green  garment  confined 
under  the  breast  with  a  girdle,  while  their  long 
black  hair  is  held  together  with  circlets  of  silver 
or  gold,  or  merely  a  simple  ribbon.  Their  arms 
and  feet  are  bare,  and  are  sometimes  very 
beautiful.  We  have  seen  some  of  the  curious 
Eastern  dances,  where  the  women  move  their 
bodies  entirely  from  the  hips  downward,  and 
we  often  hear  the  Arab  girls  singing  as  they 
accompany  themselves  on  a  mandoline.  More 
guide-book !  I  fear  you  will  exclaim  after  read- 
ing this  letter,  but  you  so  constantly  tell  me  to 
describe  all  that  I  see,  and  you  become  so 
abusive,  and  clamour  so  for  details  when  I  am  not 
particular  enough  in  my  descriptions,  that  I  feel  I 
must  risk  the  charge  of  copying  from  Baedeker. 
Is  not  the  poor  empress  terribly  distressed  at 
the  death  of  the  Duchess  d'Albe  ?  How  sad 
it  was.  Will  the  parties  at  Compiegne  be  given 
up  this  year?  I  hope  not,  as  I  know  how 
much  you  always  enjoy  them.  Could  you 
only  be  with  me  on  these  "  shining  sands  of 
Africa's  shore  "  I  should  be  quite  quite  happy. 


22S  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxxviii 


CCXXVIII 

Algiers,  \^th  October. 

I  once  wrote  you  a  description  of  a  chapel 
in  a  wood  where  prayer  was  real  and  faith  was 
not  a  dream.  In  quaint  contrast  to  that  quiet 
spot  and  the  simple  worship  practised  there, 
yet  at  once  recalling  it,  is  another  tiny  chapel 
of  an  older  faith,  standing  in  a  deserted  garden, 
amidst  a  wild  luxuriance  of  foliage  and  Eastern 
flowers,  in  this  far-away  land,  in  which  a  wor- 
ship of  signs  and  gorgeous  symbols  was  once 
practised.  We  came  upon  it  suddenly  when 
going  from  Algiers  along  the  sea-road  to  the 
village  of  St.  Eugene,  and  immediately  the 
contrast  between  the  two  places  of  worship 
struck  me  as  more  than  curious,  not  only  be- 
cause of  the  difference  in  them,  but  in  their 
odd  resemblance,  both  so  lonely  and  remote  ; 
one  so  bright  and  simple  under  the  free  dome 
of  heaven,  the  other  so  dim  and  with  such  an 
old-world  air  inside  its  painted  walls;  both 
standing  in  a  place  of  leafy  beauty,  the  one 
fresh  and  cool,  the  other  dark,  the  air  seeming 
laden  with  memories  of  the  past  ;  both  prayer- 
haunted,  but  from  the  one  the  balmy  summer 
air  seemed  to  have  swept  away  all  trace  of 
unforgiven  sin,  while  in  the  other,  time  seemed 
only  to  have  accumulated  the  grief  which  sin 
had   felt  there,  and   piled   it  high  until  its  woe 


ccxxviii    PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  'INCONNUE'      229 

oppressed  you.  We  had  left  Algiers  by  the 
north  gate,  Bal-el-Oned,  and  as  we  passed  it 
we  came  upon  a  group  which  could  a  painter 
have  transferred  to  canvas  just  as  they  looked 
at  the  moment,  his  fortune  would  have  been 
made.  The  men,  three  of  them,  were  very 
handsome ;  Moors,  with  pale,  oval  faces  and 
stately  figures.  They  wore  a  rich,  embroidered 
dress,  with  a  cloak  gracefully  draped  over  one 
shoulder,  and  on  their  heads  the  universal  fez 
and  white  turban.  All  three  stood  like  statues 
as  we  passed.  Two  Moorish  women,  enveloped 
in  white  draperies,  were  sitting  near  them  ;  both 
of  these  wore  the  white  striped  shawl  called 
kaik,  with  the  white  linen  handkerchief  called 
adjar  hiding  all  of  their  face  save  the  fiery, 
dark  eyes.  Near  them  a  Maltese  sailor  was 
disputing  with  a  bloodthirsty-looking  Spaniard 
in  a  velvet  sombrero.  The  old  gate,  a  group 
of  palms,  and  the  brilliant  colouring  of  air  and 
sky,  completed  the  picture,  which,  had  it  hung 
framed  on  the  walls  of  the  salon^  would  have 
charmed  all  who  looked  upon  it.  But  this  is 
a  land  of  pictures.  I  have  already  a  whole 
gallery  in  my  mind,  which  later,  when  I  have 
more  leisure  at  my  command,  I  must  ticket 
and  number  for  future  reference.  Let  us  one 
day  come  to  Algiers  together ;  I  begin  to  love 
it  well. 

Do  send  me  some  reliable  information  about 
the  actual  state  of  affairs  in  the  political  world. 


230  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxxix 

We  hear  strange  rumours  here  of  strained  rela- 
tions beween  Russia  and  Austria  ;  and  to  come 
nearer  home,  of  a  little  discontent  among  a 
few  about  your  emperor.  Perhaps  this  latter 
is  nothing   more  than  the  difficulty  about  M. 

H and    the     beaux- arts    to    which    you 

alluded  in  your  last  letter.  I  feel  terribly 
remote  here  ;  when  one  lives  in  Paris,  and  is 
accustomed  to  hearing  all  the  daily  details  of 
such  things,  one  rather  misses  them  when 
absent.  Write  me  one  of  your  long,  compre- 
hensive letters,  full  of  men  and  things. 


CCXXIX 

Algiers,  i^th  October. 
No.  7. 

I  am  studying  Arabic.  It  appears  frightfully 
difficult,  but  I  hope  in  time  to  conquer  it  as  I 
did  German.  I  do  so  ardently  wish  to  be 
able  to  converse  with  these  people,  who  quite 
fascinate  me,  and  are  infinitely  more  interesting 
than  the  French  colony  of  which  we  are  ob- 
liged to  see  more  than  we  quite  fancy.  Your 
tartine  politique,  as  I  presume  you  yourself 
would  designate  your  last  letter,  was  delightful. 
I  feel  quite  myself  again,  and  au  courant  with 
the  affairs  of  all  nations.  Did  ever  a  woman 
have  such  a  correspondent  before  ?  that  is  the 


ccxxix     PROSPER  M&RIMiE'S  'INCONNUE'        231 

question  I  ask  myself  after  reading  your  letters, 
which  surely  are  the  best  ever  written.  You 
make  me  smile  with  your  absurd  insistence 
that  I  should  give  you  fuller  and  still  fuller 
descriptions  of  what  I  see  here.  "  Donnez-moi 
des  details  de  moeurs  et  n'ayez  pas  peur  de  me 
scandaliser."  This  is  the  motif  of  your  every 
letter  now,  and  it  is  growing  quite  monotonous. 
Know  then,  once  for  all,  that  in  spite  of  what 
you  are  pleased  to  term  my  ettph^misme,  I  dis- 
tinctly refuse  to  enlighten  you  as  to  a  good 
many  of  the  details  of  the  manners  in  this  part 
of  the  world  lest  they  might  not  improve  your 
own.  We  have  just  come  in  from  a  visit  to 
the  market  in  the  Place  de  Chatres  under  the 
arcades,  and  have  also  been  up  to  the  Casabah, 
which  was  the  former  residence  of  the  Dey. 
It  is  not  a  particularly  cheerful  spot,  and  has 
high,  battlemented  walls  around  the  place ;  but 
one  thing  is  higher  still,  and  is  moreover  very 
beautiful — this  is  a  palm,  the  tree  of  my  pre- 
dilection. It  rears  its  lofty,  graceful  head  high 
up  against  the  sky,  and  stands  so  fair  and  slim, 
with  a  dreamy  Eastern  loveliness  which  I  find 
in  no  other  tree  that  I  have  ever  seen,  and 
which  appeals  to  something  deep  down  in  my 
heart,  just  what  I  am  perfectly  incapable  of 
explaining ;  I  only  know  that  I  love  a  palm, 
and  I  think  of  Heine's  lonely  pine-tree  in  the 
North,  sleeping  under  its  white  covering  of  ice 
and  snow,  and  dreaming  of 


232  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxxxi 

"...  einer  Palme 
Die  fern  im  Morgenland  ;" 

is  lonely,  and  silent,  and  grieved,  amid  burning 
rocky  cliffs.  Beautiful  as  it  is,  there  is  some- 
thing almost  pathetic  in  a  palm.  Near  this 
particular  one  to-day  an  Arab  spread  his 
carpet,  and  throwing  himself  on  his  knees,  bent 
his  head  to  the  earth  as  he  heard  the  call  to 
prayer.  He  had  the  dull,  uninterested  expres- 
sion of  his  race — the  look  of  a  fatalist,  who 
accepts  all  that  comes,  and  with  bowed  head 
and  total  lack  of  interest  repeats  at  every  blow 
of  fate,  "  The  will  of  Allah  be  done."  Adieu, 
cher  ami,  I  am  not  a  fatalist ;  are  you  ? 


ccxxx 

(Letter  missing) 


CCXXXI 

Algiers,  ^th  December. 

"  Je  vous  apporte  ma  tete  coicpable  I "  as  you 
tell  me,  in  your  letter  of  ist  November,  the 
Emperor  Francis  Joseph  said  to  the  Emperor 
Alexander.  If  this  is  in  reality  the  form  of 
speech  used  by  a  serf  when  he  approaches  his 
master,  fearing  to  be  punished  by  him,  it  is  an 
apt   one   for   me  to   employ,  for   I   know  how 


ccxxxi    PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S'  INCONNUE'        233 

guiltily  remiss  I  have  been  lately  in  not  writing 
and  not  acknowledging  your  two  long  and  very 
charming  letters.  That  I  did  not  do  so  is  no 
proof  that  I  did  not  to  the  fullest  extent  ap- 
preciate your  epistles,  I  enjoyed  every  word  of 
them,  but  this  African  climate  must  be  respon- 
sible for  my  remissness ;  I  am  growing  lazy  with 
a  laziness  that  would  alarm  me  were  I  not  too 
lazy  even  to  feel  afraid.  How  kind  of  you  to 
think  of  sending  me  the  little  package,  I  shall 
value  it  highly.  I  look  through  your  two  last 
letters  as  I  write,  to  see  if  any  questions  in  them 
need  answering.  You  were  quite  right  as  to 
the  address  of  the  jeweller,  it  was  Rue  d'Alger, 
No.  10,  where  I  bought  the  sleeve  buttons. 
How  amusing  that  the  Princess  Clotilde  should 
notice  them.  You  are  not  particularly  en- 
couraging about  the  Arabic,  but  I  mean  to  per- 
severe ;  how  droll  it  would  be  if  I  could  speak 
in  a  tongue  unknown  to  you  !  I  promise  not 
to  abuse  my  superior  knowledge  ;  I  will  not  call 
you  "  dog  of  a  Christian  "  at  the  very  moment 
you  are  particularly  generous  to  me,  as  these 
Arabs  do  when  we  give  them  small  coins,  hurl- 
ing their  contemptuous  phrases  at  us  with 
impunity,  as  they  know  we  cannot  understand 
a  word  they  say. 

Yes,  poor   Lady    M did    once  write  a 

book,  a  novel,  but  it  never  had  any  success,  and 
it  was  not  a  subject  she  cared  to  dwell  much 
upon    later   in   life.      She   was   one   of   several 


234  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxxxt 

warnings  to  me  not  to  perpetrate  a  similar 
folly.  I  shall  miss  the  old  lady  very  sincerely  ; 
she  was  a  good  friend  up  to  the  day  of  her 
death,  and  you  know  my  idea  as  to  friends,  I 
prefer  quality  rather  than  quantity  as  their 
characteristic.  A  few,  but  those  few  very 
staunch  and  true,  are  better  than  half  a  hundred 
feeble  half-hearted  ones  who  blow  hot  and  cold 
according  to  the  social  thermometer  of  the  day. 
In  the  way  of  literature,  I  think  you  might  find 
something  better  worth  reading  than  the  story 
of  Mademoiselle  Can  and  Mademoiselle  Ling. 
If  that  is  the  best  the  Chinese  can  do,  France 
will  not  gain  much  from  these  much-talked-of 
victories  in  China.  The  Celestials  have  never 
interested  me,  they  are  so  little  original,  and 
originality  appeals  to  me  so  very  strongly. 
What  was  really  the  real  reason  of  the  empress's 
visit  to  Scotland  ?  Is  it  personal  friendship  for 
the  Queen  of  England,  or  does  it  conceal  a 
political  meaning  ?  On  all  sides  I  hear  differ- 
ent motives  assigned  as  an  explanation  of  the 
journey,  and  if  you  will  confide  the  truth  to 
me  I  will  not  betray  your  confidence  ;  I  shall 
only  have  the  delightful  satisfaction  of  knowing 
what  all  the  world  does  not  know,  which  is,  I 
think,  one  of  the  most  pleasantly- soothing 
sensations  in  life.  You  will  insist  upon  hear- 
ing particulars  of  Algerian  customs,  here  is  one 
spicy  one  for  you.     ..... 


ccxxxii    PROSPER  MERIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '        235 


CCXXXII 

Algiers,  \oth  December  i860. 

So  I  do  not  acquit  myself  wdl  in  my  role  of 
voyageuse.  I  am  very  sorry,  but  what  more  or 
what  less  can  I  do  to  improve  matters  ?  I 
tell  you  of  what  I  see  (not  quite  all  of  it  per- 
haps) in  the  best  language  I  know  how  to 
command  ;  I  give  you  a  little  bit  of  everything, 
sunrise,  costumes,  floral  vegetation,  descriptions 
of  all  kinds,  to  say  nothing  of  my  thoughts, 
and  ambitions,  and  even  my  dreams.  When  I 
sum  up  all  this,  I  find  you  a  trifle  unreasonable, 
for,  on  the  whole,  I  think  I  might  do  worse. 
When  a  man  grows  to  have  an  idee  fixe  which 
nothing  can  turn  to  the  right  or  to  the  left, 
naturally,  he  can  see  and  appreciate  nothing 
which  does  not  in  some  way  appertain  to  that 
idea.  Might  this  not  perhaps  be  your  present 
case?  I  merely  suggest  the  thought  without 
the  slightest  arriere  pens^e.  By  a  friend  going 
directly  to  Cannes  I  send  you  a  little  souvenir 
worked  with  some  rather  good  gold  and  coloured 
embroidery  ;  just  what  it  is  I  can  hardly  say, 
you  might  perhaps  use  it  as  a  purse,  or  merely 
let  it  lie  as  a  fine  bit  of  delicate  colour  on  your 
table  with  the  "  relics  "  ;  try  the  effect.  Write 
to  me  but  do  not  scold  me  ;  strive  for  a  more 
contented  and  less  inquisitive  disposition,  and 
leave  the  natives  of   this  land    and  any  little 


2.l6  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  coxxxiv 

peculiarities    which    they    may    possess    in    an 
undisturbed  peace.      Voire  amie  d^vou^e. 


CCXXXIII 

Algiers,  7 th  January  1861. 
I  will  answer  your  question  at  once  about 
the  sacoches.  They  are  to  be  had  here,  they  do 
come  from  Constantine,  and  they  are  mar- 
vellously embroidered  with  silks  of  every  shade. 
Shall  I  get  you  some  ?  Further,  there  are 
most  lovely  stuffs  and  soft  silken  draperies,  and 
a  curious  thing  they  call  a  gebira,  a  kind  of  case 
or  bag  worked  and  inlaid  with  gold  inside  and 
out.  I  will  get  you  any  or  all  of  these  things 
if  you  will  deign  to  let  me  know  your  pleasure 
in  the  matter.  It  will  be  too  late  to  catch  the 
post  to-day  if  I  write  one  line  more,  so  I  will 
not  delay  the  above  information,  but  close  this 
fragment  of  a  letter  at  once  with  every  loyal 
loving  wish  for  the  New  Year  upon  which  we 
are  entering ;  may  it  bring  you  only  good. 


CCXXXIV 

Algiers,  "^oth  January  1861. 
Nizza  la  bella  was  a  name  so  suited  to  the 
place  that  I  cannot  share  your  enthusiasm  in 
finding  it  changed  to  Nice,  a  French  annexation. 


ccxxxv    PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S  'INCONNUE'         237 

although  the  absence  of  custom-house  officers, 
gendarmes  and  passports  on  the  Pont  de  Var 
must  be  a  vast  improvement.  I  am  so  glad 
that  you  have  been  to  see  your  friend  Mr. 
EUice  at  Nice,  as  I  know  your  mutual  admira- 
tion for  each  other.  If  you  decide  to  leave 
Cannes  about  the  8th  of  February  I  will  begin 
to  think  of  tearing  myself  away  from  my  beloved 
palms  and  the  sad -faced  Arabs,  that  we  may 
meet  again  after  this  long  separation.  Perhaps 
I  may  tell  you  some  of  the  things  you  so  much 
wish  to  know,  and  which  I  declined  to  put  on 
paper ;  but  this  only  if  I  find  you  very  amiable, 
and  if  we  meet  soon  while  the  "  details "  are 
fresh  in  my  mind. 

CCXXXV 

Algiers,  \oth  March. 

Really,  that  you  should  still  need  me  to 
remind  you  of  your  cousin's  fete  and  the  annual 
etrennes  for  Madame  Lagrene's  daughters  after 
all  these  years  is  tm  peu  fort ;  I  believe  you 
merely  say  so  to  permit  of  my  feeling  the 
pleasantness  of  being  a  necessity  to  you.  I 
accept  the  subtle  flattery,  and  repay  it  with  the 
announcement  that  I  have  just  the  very  thing 
for  your  cousin,  whom  you  can  assure  that  only 
the  fact  of  my  negligence  in  sending  it  earlier 
prevented  her  receiving  it  in  time.  For  the 
books  I  fear  you  will  have  to  make  your  own 


238  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ccxxxvi 

excuses,  unless  you  would   like  me  to  send  you 
a  few  copies  of  the  Koran  ! 

I  am  to  meet  the  Duchess  of  Malakof  to- 
night at  dinner,  and  will  with  pleasure  speak  of 
you  and  the  theatricals  in  Spain  ;  it  will  be  a 
capital  opening  subject  of  conversation.  I  am 
tired  with  a  long  walk  in  the  sun,  therefore  you 
must  forgive  a  short  letter.     Adieu. 


CCXXXVI 


29M  March  1S61. 


Your  last  letter  proved  you  to  be  in  such  an 
infamous  temper  against  all  men  and  things 
that  I  feared  your  health  might  become  seri- 
ously affected  through  nervous  agitation,  and 
I  at  the  same  time  decided  that  this  eternal 
saying  of  adieu  is  not  just  the  most  profitable 
occupation  that  we  can  indulge  in.  From  this 
decision  to  a  steamer  bound  for  France  was  but 
a  step,  and  me  void,  a  little  browner  perhaps 
than  when  you  saw  me  last — you  would  never 
believe  that  I  had  been  to  Africa  were  not  this 
the  case — but  neither  fatter  nor  thinner,  there- 
fore you  will  have  small  difficulty  in  recognising 
me.  I  think  you  will  like  the  gebira, — it  is 
rather  a  good  one.  We  shall  quarrel  delight- 
fully over  Wagner's  music  ;  I  like  it,  while  you 
have  evidently  nearly  died  under  it ;  and  you 
will   see    Tannhdnser  will  yet  be  a  success,  in 


ccxLi      PROSPER  MJ^RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE'         239 

spite  of  Auber  and  the  Princess  of  Metternich 
and  your  irascible  self  I  must  remain  here 
for  a  short  time,  that  I  may  get  my  affairs  into 
some  sort  of  order  after  so  long  an  absence, 
and  then  I  propose  seeing  Paris  and  yourself 
once  more.  With  this  hope  strong  within  me 
I  write  no  more  adieu,  but  with  much  pleasure 
ate  revoir. 

(Letters  inclusive  from  CCXXXVII  to  CCXL 
missing.) 

CCXLI 

N , 


Thursday^  \2ithjic7ie  1861. 

Have  you  ever  had  a  moment  of  such  com- 
plete aberration  of  intellect  that  in  it  you  have 
done  a  thing  which  had  the  greatest  fool  of 
your  acquaintance  done  you  would  be  con- 
vinced that  he  was  attacked  with  a  sudden 
access  of  folly  ?  Have  you  ever,  during  this 
same  space  of  mental  aberration,  literally  held 
within  your  hand  an  object  most  difficult  to 
get,  and  which  only  by  the  greatest  care  and 
skill  you  have  succeeded  in  obtaining,  and  then, 
always  at  this  critical  moment  of  the  suspension 
of  every  faculty  tinged  with  reason  or  common 
sense,  have  you  allowed  this  ardently -desired 
and  dearly -bought  object  to  slip  from  your 
grasp?      One   moment  will   do  it,  and   another 


240  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxn 

moment  will  make  you  aware  that  you  have 
done  it,  while  in  the  two  moments  combined 
the  object  so  hardly  won  has  escaped  you,  it 
may  be  for  ever,  and  you  have  only  yourself  to 
thank  for  your  loss. 

If  you  have  ever  suffered  from  a  spasm  of 
lunacy  such  as  this,  perhaps  you  will  kindly  tell 
me  what  you  did  to  yourself  by  way  of  punish- 
ment. I  am  literally  suffocating  with  rage 
against  myself,  and  would  willingly  perform 
any  act  of  self-abasement  if  it  would  effectually 
prevent  me  from  a  second  attack  upon  any 
future  occasion  of  this  same  momentary  in- 
sanity. I  can  fancy  being  able  to  apply  a 
good  many  things  which  might  be  of  salutary 
effect  were  the  delinquent  any  one  but  myself, 
but  I  can  find  nothing  sharp  enough  or  effica- 
cious enough  to  meet  such  a  case  when  it 
becomes  personal.  The  whole  story  of  the 
sottise  which  I  have  committed  is  too  long  to 
tell  ;  it  may  or  may  not  be  fatal  to  the  ultimate 
design  which  I  contemplated,  but  its  immediate 
consequence  is  that  I  am  obliged  to  stop  on 
here  indefinitely,  and  in  spite  of  my  au  revoir 
I  shall  not  be  able  to  come  to  Paris  or  to  meet 
you  just  yet.  En  revanche  I  send  you  a  cigar- 
case  which  I  had  hoped  to  give  you  in  person. 
Write  to  me,  if  you  can  do  so  after  what  I  have 
just  told  you,  as  if  I  were  still  a  reasonable 
being,  instead  of  what  I  feel  myself  to  be,  the 
most  imbecile  idiot  ever  allowed  to  go  at  large  ! 


ccxLiv    PROSPER  MARIM^E'S'INCONNUE'         241 

CCXLII 

N- ,  \2ihjuly  1 861. 

When  I  tell  you  that  the  domestic  event  in 
my  sister-in-law's  family  is  still  awaited  with 
no  little  anxiety  you  will  understand  why  I 
have  not  written  as  regularly  as  usual.  1 
devoutly  hope  that  everything  will  soon  be 
satisfactorily  over,  for  this  state  of  suspense  is 
getting  on  my  nerves,  and  the  responsibility  of 
the  entertainment  is,  malgri  moi^  thrust  upon 
me.  If  you  have  any  moments  left  between 
the  dinners  and  balls  with  which  your  time  in 
London  is  doubtless  almost  entirely  taken  up, 
do  write  me  something  amusing  ;  I  am  bored 
to  death,  as  I  was  never  intended  for  a  garde- 
malade. 

CCXLIII 

(Letter  missing) 


CCXLIV 

N ,  i7ih  August  i2>()i. 

My  next  letter  will   be  from   D ,  as  we 

are  just  off — at  least  the  children  and  I  are — 
to  that  place  ;  my  sister-in-law  is  recovering 
very  slowly,  and  will  remain  here  for  some  time 
longer.  Your  account  of  the  Bank  of  England 
R 


242  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ccxlv 

made  me  feel  quite  avaricious  of  so  much  gold. 
I  have  once  or  twice  passed  it — the  Bank,  not 
the  gold — when  I  had  business  calling  me 
into  the  City,  and  have  been  amused  at  the 
magnificence  of  the  porter  at  the  door, 
with  his  trimming  of  gold  lace  and  his  im- 
posing hat ;  farther  than  the  door  I  have  never 
penetrated. 

So  this  time  Mr.  Gladstone  pleases  you 
more  ;  for  me  he  is  a  wonderful  man  who  will 
go  far.      I  meant  to  tell  you  another  story  of 

Lord  B ,  more  amusing  still  than  the  one 

you  tell  in  your  letter  of  i6th  July  ;  but  I  quite 
forgot  it  when  I  wrote,  and  on  second  thoughts 
I  think  that  it  will  tell  the  better  if  I  can  per- 
sonally act  the  dramatic  portions  of  it,  which 
could  not  be  expressed  on  paper.  Remind  me 
to  do  this  when  we  meet. 

Direct  your  next  to  D . 


CCXLV 

D ,  I'jih  August  1 86 1. 

Nonsense !  so  you  find  that  I  have  accus- 
tomed myself  to  submit  to  oppression,  and 
that  is  why  I  enjoy  having  these  children  about 
me.  Well,  there  are  theories  and  theories,  and 
the  most  amusing  part  about  this  particular 
one  is  that  to  make  me  submit  the  oppression 
must  come  from  any  one  saving  and  excepting 


CCXLV     PROSPER  M^RI AIDE'S  * INCONNUE  '  243 

yourself!.  Cest  tm  peu  fort,  par  cxe^nple,  but 
all  the  same,  as  I  said,  amusing.  I  delight  in 
children,  always  have,  and  always  shall.  They 
never  bore  me,  and  I  like  studying  the  still 
undeveloped  traits  of  the  human  animal  when 
very  small.  I  like  to  play  with  children  and 
to  have  them  about  me,  and  I  thank  God  from 
the  bottom  of  my  heart  that  I  have  none  of 
my  own  !  The  pleasure  of  them  is  very  great, 
but  the  responsibility  of  them  is  too  great.  To 
begin  with,  they  may  be  so  satisfactory  in  every 
way,  and  they  may  on  the  contrary  be  so 
miserably  disappointing.  If  a  boy,  one  would 
naturally  wish  him  to  be  bright  and  plucky, 
clever  at  his  books,  a  thorough  little  gentleman, 
honest  and  truthful,  intelligent,  responsive, 
affectionate.  Fancy  one's  dismay  should  he 
turn  out  to  be  dull  and  sullen,  awkward  and 
untidy,  without  ambition  or  interest  in  things 
around  him,  given  to  a  shifty  sort  of  prevarica- 
tion, unresponsive  and  selfish,  a  gloomy  blot 
in  the  household  instead  of  a  bit  of  glad  happy 
sunshine.  If  a  girl,  on  the  other  hand,  she 
should  be  pretty,  loving  and  winning,  with 
promise  of  future  grace  and  accomplishments, 
holding  strictly  to  truth  and  virtue — all  of 
which   things,  by  the  way,  the  little  one  who 

so  attracts  me  in  Madame  de  P 's  brood  is 

duly  endowed  with.  Such  a  child  is  a  constant 
delight,  but  were  she  the  opposite  of  this,  quel 
malheiir  !     One  human  being  less  in  the  world 


244  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ccxlv 

would,  under  those  circumstances,  .  suit  me 
better.  No,  no,  mon  ami,  little  people  to  be 
enjoyed  should  suggest  no  personal  responsi- 
bility. Who  is  the  moralist  who  writes  that 
but  one  woman  in  a  hundred,  at  a  very  moderate 
calculation,  is  really  fitted  to  be  a  mother? 
Think  what  the  part  of  a  conscientious  mother 
really  is.  A  child's  soul  and  mind  is  given 
into  her  keeping — a  pure  white  blank  like  a 
sheet  of  paper,  easily  impressed,  responsive  to 
the  first  words  written  upon  it  You  may 
later,  if  you  will,  rub  out,  and  perhaps  so  far  as 
the  eye  can  see  entirely  efface,  some  of  the 
original  precepts  and  ideas  traced  upon  the 
page,  even  successfully  write  others  over  them  ; 
but,  if  carefully  examined,  the  smooth  surface 
of  the  paper  will  be  found  to  be  scratched  and 
roughened  ;  you  can  see  the  blurred  spot  by 
holding  it  in  the  proper  light,  and  beneath  the 
second  writing  will  be  found  the  first,  faint  and 
colourless,  but  deeply  marked.  The  ink  or 
carbon  may  have  been  quite  rubbed  off,  but 
the  steel  point  of  the  pen  or  the  weight  of  the 
pencil  has  imprinted  indelible  lines.  And  to 
whom  but  the  mother  is  it  given  to  write  these 
first  teachings  upon  the  little  white  soul,  the 
little  blank  heart  and  understanding ;  and 
among  the  many  mothers  how  few,  how  terri- 
fyingly  few,  are  those  who  write  in  wisdom, 
and  firmness  tempered  with  gentleness,  and  a 
patience  unending  ? 


CCXLV     PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S'  INCONNUE'         245 

It  is  SO  infinitely  easier  to  spoil  a  child  than 
it  is  to  train  him  wisely,  to  give  him  the  thing 
refused  a  moment  before  because  he  cries  for 
it,  and  the  noise  he  makes  is  a  nuisance.  To 
tell  him  crossly  to  hush  up  and  not  talk  any 
more  because  the  little  brain,  puzzling  over 
many  things  and  struggling  to  understand 
some  of  the  mysteries  around  it,  will  ask 
troublesome  and  stupid  questions  just  at  the 
moment  when  your  book  is  most  interesting  or 
your  head  aches.  Heavens,  the  patience  of  all 
the  angels  combined  is  needed  to  make  one 
perfect  mother !  The  responsibility  has  no 
let  up  to  it ;  it  is  line  upon  line,  and  precept 
upon  precept,  in  season  and  out  of  season,  and 
even  then  suppose  one  should  fail  ?  It  must 
be  terrible  for  a  parent  to  see  the  unrestrained 
passions  of  a  well -grown  child,  to  watch  his 
violent  temper  if  angered,  his  sullen  sulkiness 
if  thwarted,  his  selfish  uncheerful  manner  to 
those  around  him,  and  to  have  conscience  say 
— "  That  is  all  your  work  ;  you  spoiled  him 
because  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  train  him 
properly.  If  you  had  instructed  him  in  gentle- 
ness and  forgiveness  and  self-control,  he  could 
never  exhibit  such  ungoverned  rage ;  if  you 
had  denied  him  things  with  firmness,  and  taught 
him  to  bear  disappointments,  he  would  not  to- 
day make  your  heart  ache  with  those  black 
looks  and  that  sulky  silence  ;  had  you  earlier 
taught  him  to  be  generous  in   thought  and  in 


246  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ccxlv 

deed,  and  had  impressed  upon  him  that  a 
certain  amount  of  cheery  friendliness  is  due 
one  mortal  from  another,  you  would  not  have 
been  forced  to  blush  for  his  loutish  ungracious- 
ness of  demeanour."  And  I  believe  conscience 
must  say  just  this  to  parents  very  frequently. 
Too  much  responsibility  is  it  all  when  one 
thinks  of  it  seriously  ;  and  did  one  so  think, 
the  subject  would  grow  in  magnitude  until  few 
would  willingly  face  it.  I  have  spoken  only 
of  the  temporal  side  of  the  question — the  child's 
physical  and  mental  training ;  but  think  of 
that  other  spiritual  side,  of  the  child's  little 
white  soul  which  is  to  be  guided  and  influ- 
enced, and  remember  the  quick  imitativeness  of 
children,  their  retentive  memories,  the  startling 
clearness  with  which  they  see  through  humbug, 
and  the  tenacity  with  which  they  remember 
example.  Ach  lieber  Himmel  I  let  me  play 
with  other  people's  pretty  toddling  things,  but 
save  me  the  horror  of  ever  knowing ,  that 
through  any  neglect  or  carelessness  on  my 
part  I  have  made  more  difficult  the  life  here, 
or  impossible  the  life  hereafter,  to  any  child  of 
my  own  ! 

We  spend  our  days  in  excursions,  going  for 
long   tramps,  and    eating   our   luncheon   under 

the  trees.      There  are  Madame  de  P —  and 

myself,  a  clever  little  French  artist  who  sketches, 
and  the  small  fry.  A  donkey- boy  goes  to 
attend  to  the  animals,  as  by  turn  the  tired  ones 


ccxLVii  PROSPER  MJ^RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'         247 

of  the  party  ride  on  donkeys,  and  no  less  than 
five  dogs  accompany  us  ;  then  the  weather  is 
perfect  for  out-of-door  hfe,  and  I  never  saw  the 
place  looking  so  lovely.  I  wish  you  would 
leave  Paris.  How  you  can  stand  that  white 
glare  and  the  August  smells  I  cannot  under- 
stand. Can  you  not  get  away  to  Biarritz? 
Toujoiii's  fidele,  M. 

CCXLVI 

D ,  I  ^th  September. 

Delighted,  mon  ami,  that  you  are  out  of  the 
heat  and  glare  of  Paris  and  are  being  well 
amused,  as  I  know  you  always  are,  in  these 
visits  to  the  empress.  Write  me  a  full  account 
of  your  life  at  the  Villa  Eugenie,  and,  above 
all,  tell  me  that  you  are  feeling  well  and  more 
yourself  there.      My  letter  must  be  brief,  for  we 

are  just  off  to  the  R Valley  for  the  day  ; 

even  as  I  write  the  children  are  calling  me, 
and  their  combined  voices  make  a  noise  which 
you  would  pronounce  insufferable  !     Adieu. 


CCXLVII 

Paris,  id  November. 
We  reached  here  last  evening.     I  am  well 
up  in  metaphysics.     Let  me  know  when  I  can 
see  you. 


248  WA  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  COL 

CCXLVIIl 
(Letter  missing) 


CCXLIX 

Paris,  19///  November  1861. 
Your  letter  was  delightful.  The  little  Prince 
Imperial  must  be  a  charming  child,  even  if 
sometimes  rather  terrible.  I  laughed  heartily- 
over  his  reason  for  bowing  to  the  people,  but 
should  fancy  it  must  cause  a  smile  when  he 
gives  it  in  public  !  By  the  dance  which  you 
describe  I  presume  that  the  Duke  of  Athole  and 
his  companions  treated  you  to  the  Highland 
Fling,  and  am  not  astonished  that  you  found  it 
alarming.  Since  many  a  long  day  your  letters 
have  not  been  so  like  yourself  as  this  last  one. 
I  think  our  discussions  on  metaphysics  must 
have  done  you  great  good,  cheered  ■  away 
some  of  the  cobwebs  from  your  brain  which 
have  bothered  you  lately.  Is  my  supposition 
correct  ? 

CCL 

R ,  ^th  January  1862, 

Jamais  de  la  vie !  Of  what  can  you  be 
thinking?  I  know  my  Paris,  know  just  what 
it  will  stand,  and  just  where  it  draws  the  line : 


OCL         PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  249 

know  the  narrow  crooked  escalier  de  service  in 
every  appartement  meiibU  up  which  mounts  so 
much  knowledge  of  ces  messieurs  so  comme  ilfaut 
who  decorously  mount  the  broad  steps  of  the 
grand  staircase.  Mais,  mon  cher,  vous  etes  fou  I 
N'en  parlous  plus.  The  lessons  in  botany  have 
evidently  gone  to  your  head  !  Do  you  remem- 
ber some  lines  of  Heine — I  must  repeat  the  first 
four  that  you  may  understand  the  last  two,  and 
had  I  space  I  would  quote  the  whole — 

"  Ich  rief  den  Teufel  und  er  kam, 
Und  ich  sah  ihm  mit  Verwund'rung  an  ! 
Er  ist  nicht  hasslich  und  ist  nicht  lahm, 
Er  ist  ein  lieber  scharmanter  Mann. 

Und  als  ich  recht  besah  sein  Gesicht, 
Fand  ich  in  ihm  einen  alten  Bekannten."  ^ 

There,  mein  Freund,  you  have  the  answer  to 
the  last  page  of  your  letter  in  more  expressive 
language  than  any  I  could  write.  Ask  me  no 
more. 

Pray  do  not  waste  all  your  affection  on  that 
cat  which  you  seem  to  be  so  attentive  to,  or  I 
shall  grow  as  jealous  of  it  as  I  was  of  the 
horrible  beast  you  fed  upon  flies.  It  was  really 
quite  a  relief  to  my  mind  when   that  repulsive 

^  I  called  the  devil  and  he  came, 
Can  he  be  under  heaven's  ban  ! 
He  is  not  ugly  and  is  not  lame, 
He  is  a  dear  and  charming  man. 

And  as  I  looked  him  in  the  face 
I  found  in  him  an  old  acquaintance. 


250  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ccl 

creature  died.  I  begin  to  believe  that  you  are 
slightly  jealous  of  these  children  who  afford  me 
so  much  amusement.  Poor  little  mites,  they 
have  convinced  me  of  one  thing,  and  that  is, 
that  grown-up  people  talk  a  great  deal  of 
nonsense  about  the  happy  days  of  childhood. 
I  do  not  believe  that  children  are  half  as  happy 
as  they  get  the  credit  of  being.  Everything  is 
so  terribly  real  to  them,  and  they  are  so  abso- 
lutely ignorant  that  they  have  nothing  to  fall 
back  upon.  To  say  to  a  child  "  Not  now,  some 
other  time  you  can  do  it,"  conveys  to  his  mind 
nothing  but  blank  desolation,  the  crushing  in- 
finity of  space  and  limitless  ages.  Each  day  I 
feel  more  convinced  that  thoughtless  words  or 
expressions,  used  by  their  elders,  often  give 
children  hours  of  bitter  puzzled  thought,  simply 
because  the  poor  little  things  possess  neither 
the  knowledge  nor  the  experience  which  would 
disentangle  jest  from  earnestness.  Further,  to 
break  a  promise,  however  slight,  made  to  a 
child  I  consider  absolutely  criminal,  and  another 
sin  almost  beyond  forgiveness  in  my  opinion, 
is  to  say  to  a  little  fellow,  what  only  the  other 
day  I  heard  a  mother  say  to  her  son,  "  No,  go 
away,  I  cannot  kiss  a  naughty  boy  good-night," 
and  the  poor  little  man,  too  proud  to  cry,  but 
with  a  quivering  lip,  left  the  room  and  went  to 
bed  with  a  heart  swelling  with  a  sense  of  injus- 
tice, and  his  first  baby  realisation  of  what  it  is 
to  have  your  hand  against  every  man  and  every 


CCL  PROSPER  M^RIMJ&E'S'INCONNUE'         251 

man's  hand  against  you.  I  saw  him  later  lying 
in  his  little  cot,  with  hot  flushed  cheeks  and 
two  great  tear-drops  on  the  dark  eyelashes,  and 
even  in  sleep  short  sobs  came  now  and  then. 
What  hard  thoughts  must  have  come  to  the 
sore  smarting  little  soul  after  he  had  been  left 
alone  in  the  dark  and  told  to  go  to  sleep.  Poor 
little  fellow,  he  at  least  had  not  found  childhood 
all  happiness.  But  you  will  call  me  maudlin  if 
I  write  much  more  about  small  humans. 

I  will  look  out  for  the  book  you  refer  to  of 
Max  Muller,  but  doubt  my  intelligence  being 
equal  to  the  finding  of  it  without  knowing  the 
title  ;  however,  I  will  try.  I  am  re-reading  parts 
of  Shakespeare  ;  how  was  it  possible  for  a  man 
to  obtain  the  wonderful  insight  into  human 
nature  which  every  sentence  of  his  writings 
shows !  A  line  in  Jidiiis  CcBsar  has  haunted 
me  all  day,  that  one  in  Antony's  speech  to 
"  Friends,  Romans,  Countrymen,"  the  line  which 
says — "  The  evil  that  men  do  lives  after  them." 
Ay,  that's  the  worst  of  it.  If  only  we  could 
keep  our  favourite  sins  for  ourselves,  have  them 
to  live  with  us,  and  be  decently  buried  with  us, 
it  might  be  all  very  well,  but  to  know  that 
when  death,  that  one  only  certain  thing  in  life 
upon  which  we  can  count  never  to  fail  us,  has 
in  turn  come  to  us,  laid  us  low,  snuffed  us  out, 
that  then^  we  helpless  and  gone,  then  our  sins 
rampage  the  world  on  their  own  account,  we 
powerless   to  check   their  vagaries,  but  always 


252  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ccll 

responsible  for  them  ;  this  staggers  one.  Well, 
here  we  are,  put  into  the  world,  not  at  our  own 
asking,  but  all  the  same  bound  to  act  out  our  part 
in  the  play  as  if  we  liked  it.  It  seems  endless 
sometimes,  and  deadly  wearisome,  but,  to  quote 
Shakespeare  again,  **  The  night  is  long  that 
never  finds  the  day." 

Do  not  forget  your  cousin's  fete  ;  do  you  want 
me  to  look  up  anything  for  her  in  this  part  of 
the  world  ?  .  .  .  I  could  not  finish  my  letter  until 
to-day,  the  i  3th,  having  had  no  end  of  ennuis. 
La  petite    has   been  very  ill,  and   is  only  now 

beginning  to  improve,  and   Madame  de  P 

has  been  suddenly  called  away,  leaving  me  more 
responsibility  than  I  quite  fancy.  The  book 
has  been  ordered.  I  finally  succeeded  in  un- 
earthing the  thing  you  wanted.  Do  write  and 
give  me  some  idea  of  when  you  think  of  return- 
ing to  Paris.     Aufwiedersehn. 

CCLI 
(Letter  missing) 

CCLII 

HOMBOURG,  ^thjune. 

In  spite  of  the  charms  of  this  place  which 

I  always  delight  in,   I   am  "  exceeding  vexed  " 

with  myself  that  I  did  not  do  as  you  advised, 

put  off  the  "  cure  "  here  until   later,  and  go  to 


ccLiii     PROSPER  MERIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE'         253 

London  while  you  are  there  for  the  exhibition. 
It  really  was  very  stupid  of  me  to  keep  to  my 
original  programme ;  why  did  you  not  insist 
upon  changing  it,  and,  whether  I  liked  it  or  not, 
prove  to  me  how  stupid  I  was  ?  Your  letter 
from  London  must  come  now  in  a  few  days, 
and  I  know  the  reading  of  it  will  complete  my 
dissatisfaction  with  myself,  and  you,  and  the 
world  in  general  !  I  am  growing  too  cross  to 
write,  so  will  say  adieu. 


CCLIII 

HOMBOURG,  loth  June  1862. 
Yours  of  the  6th  has  just  come  ;  what  a  crass 
idiot  I  was  not  to  go  to  London  !  but  there  is 
no  use  abusing  myself  now,  it  is  too  late,  you 
are  almost  ready  to  return  to  Paris,  where  I 
will  try  to  meet  you,  and  moreover,  as  I  am 
here  I  might  as  well  get  all  the  good  I  can  from 
the  waters  ;  I  fancy  temper  is  hardly  a  good 
assistant  in  establishing  any  sort  of  cure,  so  I 
will  keep  calm,  in  spite  of  knowing  myself  to 
have  been  a  fool.  It  is  provoking  that  the 
exhibition  should  be  so  small  a  success  after  all 
the  trouble  it  seems  to  have  given  every  one, 
yourself  included.  The  restaurant  arrange- 
ments I  knew  were  quite  safe  to  be  bad — they 
always  are  in  England.  Did  you  ever  try  a 
cup  of  tea  (the  national   beverage,  by  the  way) 


254  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccliii 

at  an  English  railway  station  ?  If  you  have 
not,  I  would  advise  you,  as  a  friend,  to  continue 
to  abstain  !  The  names  of  the  American  drinks 
are  rather  against  them,  the  straws  are,  I  think, 
about  the  best  part  of  them.  You  do  not  tell 
me  what  you  think  of  Mr.  Disraeli.  I  once 
met  him  at  a  ball  at  the  Duke  of  Sutherland's 
in  the  long  picture  gallery  of  Stafford  House. 
I  was  walking  with  Lord  Shrewsbury,  and  with- 
out a  word  of  warning  he  stopped  and  introduced 
him,  mentioning  with  reckless  mendacity  that 
I  had  read  every  book  he  had  written  and 
admired  them  all,  then  he  coolly  walked  off  and 
left  me  standing  face  to  face  with  the  great 
statesman.  He  talked  to  me  for  some  time, 
and  I  studied  him  carefully.  I  should  say  he 
was  a  man  with  one  steady  aim :  endless 
patience,  untiring  perseverance,  iron  concentra- 
tion ;  marking  out  one  straight  line  before  him 
so  unbending  that  despite  themselves  men  stand 
aside  as  it  is  drawn  straightly  and  steadily  on. 
A  man  who  believes  that  determination  brings 
strength,  strength  brings  endurance,  and  en- 
durance brings  success.  You  know  how  often 
in  his  novels  he  speaks  of  the  influence  of 
women,  socially,  morally,  and  politically,  yet  his 
manner  was  the  least  interested  or  deferential 
in  talking  that  I  have  ever  met  with  in  a  man 
of  his  class.  He  certainly  thought  this  particular 
woman  of  singularly  small  account,  or  else  the 
brusque  and  tactless  allusion  to  his  books  may 


CCLV        PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S' INCONNUE'         255 

perhaps  have  annoyed  him  as  it  did  me  ;  but 
whatever  the  cause,  when  he  promptly  left  me 
at  the  first  approach  of  a  mutual  acquaintance,  I 
felt  distinctly  snubbed.  Of  the  two  men,  Mr. 
Gladstone  was  infinitely  more  agreeable  in  his 
manner,  he  left  one  with  the  pleasant  feeling  of 
measuring  a  little  higher  in  cubic  inches  than 
one  did  before,  than  which  I  know  no  more 
delightful  sensation.      A  Paris,  bientot 


CCLIV 
(Letter  missing) 


CCLV 


,  Thursday^  7.1  st  August. 

Methinks,  mon  cher,  that  we  are  growing  old  ; 
going  gently  down  the  hill  together,  you  and  L 
That  one  word  together  takes  whatever  sting 
there  may  be  from  out  the  patent  fact,  for  fact 
I  fear  it  is.  How  little  we  quarrel  now,  how 
placid  and  tranquil  we  have  grown.  You  say 
far  less  about  the  splendour  of  my  eyes,  but 
write  instead  about  your  doctor's  diagnosis,  and 
the  remedies  he  hopes  to  cure  you  with  ;  your 
palpitations,  sleeplessness,  and  want  of  appetite. 
And  I,  not  one  whit  behind  you,  tell  you  my 
eyes  are  weak,  and  cry  no  longer  in  frantic 
passion-thrilled  tones  that  even  conscience  shall 


256  AxW  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  COLV 

be  drugged  for  your  dear  sake  because  I  cannot 
bring  myself  to  say  you  nay  in  anything,  only 
write  calmly  of  the  "  cure "  at  Hombourg  and 
the  benefit  I  find  from  the  use  of  mineral 
waters.  Alack-a-day,  how  times  do  change ! 
A  sure  proof  of  advancing  years  on  my  part  is 
that  I  can  no  longer  endure  with  even  a 
semblance  of  patience  the  petty  jealousies  and 
squabbles  in  which  the  natives  of  this  place  pass 
their  petty  little  lives.  It  gets  upon  my  nerves, 
this  constant  wrangling  and  silly  littleness  ;  soon 
shall  I  quit  the  place  and  sever  all  connection 
with  it  if  this  sort  of  thing  continues.  I  always 
knew  that  provincial  life  as  a  continued  exist- 
ence would  be  insupportable,  but  for  a  short 
space  of  time  I  liked  it,  now  it  begins  to  bore 
me  inexpressibly.  An  American  girl  is  singing 
in  the  villa  next  to  mine  with  her  windows 
wide  open,  and  my  poor  unoffending  ears  are 
being  tortured  with  those  pretty  lines  of  Heine 
pronounced  too  execrably — 

''  Dein  Herzehen  so  siiss  und  so  falsch  und  so  klein, 
Es  kann  nirgend  was  siiss'  res  und  falscheres  sein." 

Over  and  over  again  the  little  Yankee  shrieks 
out  the  words,  giving  a  worse  intonation  at 
every  fresh  attempt.  She  is  half  in  love  with 
a  German  baron  who  is  here,  and  whether  his 
little  heart  is  really  the  sweetest  and  falsest  that 
ever  was,  or  whether  by  singing  this  statement 
to  him  in  the  most  rasping  German   she  hopes 


CCLVII     PROSPER  Mi  RIMER'S  '  INCONNUE  '         257 

to  convince  him  that  it  ought  to  be,  I  know 
not,  I  have  merely  the  benefit  of  the  practising. 
Adieu,  /leder  alter  Freiind. 


CCLVI 

,  5M  September. 

Was  it  because  you  objected  to  my  sugges- 
tions that  we  are  neither  of  us  quite  so  young 
as  we  were  that  you  not  only  ignore  them,  but 
write  two  pages  of  natural  history  which  you 
know  I  shall  dislike  to  read  ?  I  am  glad  you 
have  at  least  the  grace  to  say  that  you  are  con- 
vinced I  shall  be  furious  at  the  stories  you  tell 
me,  but  why  waste  your  time  upon  them  ? 
Your  letter  really  deserves  no  answer,  and  I 
shall  not  tell  you  when  I  mean  to  be  in  Paris, 
or  any  of  my  plans. 

CCLVII 

,  \st  October  1862. 

We  never  shall  agree  as  to  Victor  Hugo,  so 
it  seems  senseless  to  discuss  him.  I  find  his 
language  quite  wonderful,  even  although  he 
may  coin  words  of  his  own  to  better  express 
his  thoughts.  I  read  the  speech  he  made  at 
Brussels,  and  to  which  you  refer,  and  liked  it, 
but  do  let  us  leave  him  as  a  bone  of  contention 
to  any  other  dogs  inclined  to  quarrel  over  him. 
3 


258  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  CCLX 

It  was  precisely  Thiers's  opinion  of  the  great 
Napoleon  which  I  particularly  liked  in  his 
twentieth  volume  ;  it  struck  me  as  being  so  just 
and  unbiassed.  I  do  not  find  quite  so  much 
time  for  reading  as   I   could  wish,  for  Madame 

de  P and  the  children  are  with  me,  and  I 

must  make  their  visit  as  agreeable  as  possible. 
My  little  niece  grows  lovelier  day  by  day. 

Write  to  me  when  you  get  back  to  Paris,  and 
tell  me  your  plans. 

CCLVIII 
(Letter  missing) 

CCLIX 

(Letter  missing) 

CCLX 

Paris,  \oth  December  1862. 
Merely  cher  anil^  for  a  charming  letter  dated 
Cannes,  5th  December.  It  is  delightful  merely 
to  hear  of  all  the  flowers,  and  open  windows, 
and  floods  of  sunshine,  and  smiling  country, 
while  Paris  is  treating  us  rather  harshly  so  far 
as  temperature  is  concerned.  But  the  winter 
promises  to  be  a  gay  one  ;  there  are  quantities 
of  strangers  here,  and  skating  out  at  the  Bois 
has  become   the  rage.      Their   Majesties   often 


CCLXI       PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S'INCONNUE'         259 

honour  the  ice  sports  with  their  presence,  and 
even  take  part  in  them.  The  empress  seems 
to  be  more  admired  than  ever,  and  is  certainly 
an  extremely  beautiful  woman.  The  little 
prince  is  looked  after  with  affectionate  eyes 
whenever  he  appears,  and  the  emperor  is  keep- 
ing all  classes  in  Paris  busy.  New  streets  and 
boulevards  are  being  opened,  workmen  are  kept 
employed  with  building,  the  shopkeepers  are 
pleased  at  the  impetus  given  to  trade  by  the 
fetes  and  entertainments  at  the  Tuileries,  society 
has  already  begun  with  dinners  and  small 
dances,  and  innumerable  balls  are  to  follow 
later.  No  one  has  time  to  grumble,  and  France 
seems  at  last  contented  and  happy.  God  grant 
she  may  remain  so,  and  close  her  history  in 
peace.  I  will  look  up  the  Russian  name  about 
which  you  wish  information.      Milk  tendresses. 


CCLXI 

Paris,  gth  January  1863. 
Well,  I  will  read  Salammbd  if  you  really  wish 
it,  but  I  do  so  detest  horrors  and  executions  in 
books,  which  ought  only  to  rest,  or  amuse,  or 
instruct.  I  will  also  look  out  for  the  Revue 
des  DeiLx  Mondes  of  the  i  5  th,  and  read  M.  Tour- 
guenief 's  "  Les  Peres  et  les  Enfants."  And  for 
you  I  have  a  delightful  new  book  to  recom- 
mend,— George  Eliot's  Romola^ — which  I  have 


26o  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cclxi 

just  finished.  I  will  send  you  two  short,  very- 
short,  extracts  from  it,  both  of  which  have  a 
bearing  upon  our  last  conversation  together, 
which  I  feel  tolerably  sure  you  have  not  for- 
gotten. The  first  quotation  is  as  follows  : — 
"As  a  strong  body  struggles  against  fumes 
with  the  more  violence  when  they  begin  to  be 
stifling,  a  strong  soul  struggles  against  phan- 
tasies with  all  the  more  alarmed  energy  when 
they  threaten  to  govern  in  the  place  of  thought." 
And  the  second  one  answers  a  question  which 
you  put  to  me  during  our  farewell  walk,  in 
words  far  more  to  the  point  than  any  I  could 
find  at  the  moment : — "  Savonarola  said,  with 
keener  emotion  than  he  had  yet  shown,  *  Be 
thankful,  my  daughter,  if  your  own  soul  has 
been  spared  perplexity  ;  and  judge  not  those 
to  whom  a  harder  lot  has  been  given,'  ...  *  I 
do  not  believe!'  said  Romola,  her  whole  frame 
shaken  with  passionate  repugnance.  *  God's 
kingdom  is  something  wider,  else  let  me  stand 
outside  it  with  the  beings  that  I  love!'"  But 
you  must  read  the  book ;  it  is  powerfully 
written,  and  George  Eliot  cannot  be  judged  by 
extracts. 

No,  do  not  change  the  date  of  coming.  The 
20th  or  2 1st  will  suit  me  equally  well.  By 
that  time  I  shall  be  able  to  get  through  the 
almost  endless  commissions  with  which  absent 
friends  honour  me.  Very  flattering  it  may  be 
for  people  to  write  that  they  have  such  perfect 


CCLXiii    PROSPER  MARIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '         261 

confidence  in  my  taste  that  they  are  quite 
willing  to  leave  the  selection  of  their  winter 
wardrobe  entirely  to  me,  but  very  trying  it 
certainly  is  to  spend  hours  in  these  crowded 
shops  and  dance  attendance  on  fashionable 
dressmakers.  Oh,  why  did  Eve  eat  the  apple 
and  condemn  us  to  wear  clothes !  gracefully 
draped  fig-leaves  might  have  been  made  so 
becoming,  and  would  have  shown  off  the  figure 
to  such  advantage.  Au  revoir^  I  shall  count 
the  hours  until  the  20th. 


CCLXII 

Paris,  ^ist  January. 
I  am  too  much  disappointed  to  write,  for 
up  to  the  last  moment  I  had  felt  confident 
that  you  could  come.  Do  be  more  careful  in 
future  ;  what  is  a  sunset  worth,  the  most 
exquisite  one  ever  seen,  if  it  must  be  an  ex- 
change for  an  illness  ?  "  le  suis  Hen  tristCy 
bien  desappomtee^ 

CCLXIII 

Rome,  ist  May  1863. 
How  right  you  were  in  your  description  of 
this  place ;    of  how   impossible   it   is   to   carry 
out  any  premeditated  plan  for  seeing  the  thou- 
sand and  one  things  one  ought  to  see,  because 


262  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cclxiii 

of  the  "  unexpected  "  which  at  every  corner  of 
the  street  distracts  one's  attention,  and  draws 
one  on  from  sensation  to  sensation.  I  agree 
with  you  also  in  thinking  it  far  wiser  to  have 
one  wide,  soul-filling  memory  of  a  great  whole 
than  to  carry  away  a  crowd  of  smaller  details 
which  must  at  a  distance  be  more  or  less  con- 
fusing. But  how  one's  senses  reel  here  with 
the  souvenirs  of  the  past  which  crowd  through 
the  mind  and  appeal  to  the  eye,  while  an 
almost  hopeless  feeling  comes  over  one  of  the 
utter  impossibility  of  taking  in  half  of  what  there 
is  to  appreciate.  I  went  to  St.  Peter's  as  you 
advised,  just  as  the  day  was  falling,  when  the 
great  distances  inside  the  building  were  dim 
and  shadowy,  and  the  light  before  the  altar 
was  but  half  defined.  The  cherubs  holding 
shells  of  holy  water  near  the  door  were  barely 
outlined,  and  the  few  kneeling  figures  scattered 
about  looked  like  bowed  phantoms.  All  colour 
in  the  mosaics  was  of  course  lost,  and  no  details 
of  the  vast  edifice  could  be  seen,  but  I  know 
why  you  told  me  to  go  at  this  hour ;  I  think 
I  felt  what  you  wished  me  to  feel  when  you 
thought  of  it.  We  have  wandered  through 
acres  of  picture  galleries,  and  seen  endless 
palaces  and  ruins,  the  coliseum,  many  of  the 
churches  ;  in  fact,  all  the  things  that  every  one 
sees.  And  to  attempt  to  describe  Rome  would 
be  only  ancient  history  to  you.  Be  content 
with  knowing  that  I  enjoy  it  as  I  have  seldom 


cuLXiv     PROSPER  M&RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE'        263 

enjoyed  anything,  and  you  may  add  that  the  one 
drawback  to  my  perfect  contentment  is  the  fact 
that  you  are  not  with  me.  We  are  going  to 
the  Catacombs  to-morrow,  and  if  my  courage 
is  equal  to  the  experiment  of  putting  out  my 
candle  and  remaining  quite  alone  in  one  of  the 
little  corridors  I  will  try  it,  but  it  sounds  a 
rather  gruesome  and  uncanny  proceeding. 
Adieu. 

CCLXIV 

L ,  loth  June. 

Yes,  like  the  giant  in  a  child's  fairy  tale,  I 
am  coming  nearer  with  alarming  speed.  That 
I  shall  be  able  to  write  a  comprehensive  letter 
I  much  doubt,  so  dazed  am  I  mentally  by  all 
that  I  have  seen.  I  have  not  in  any  way 
"  taken  in  "  half  of  it.  Whether  a  clearer  com- 
prehension will  come  with  time,  I  cannot  say  ; 
at  present  my  mind  is  one  great  blur,  one  con- 
fused jumble  of  sights  and  sounds  and  impres- 
sions. Perhaps  I  may  realise  it  all  in  the 
coming  winter  evenings  by  a  sympathetic  fire, 
which  will  burn  low  and  darkly  as  I  think  of 
all  the  stains  upon  Pagan,  and  Christian,  and 
Imperial  Rome,  all  the  dark  blots  on  the  his- 
tory of  Italy  in  olden  days  and  the  present 
time  ;  and  then  will  leap  into  glowing  blaze 
as  the  wonders  of  art  and  skill  wrought  in  the 
proud    city   of   the    seven    hills    come    clearly 


264  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  CCLXV 

defined  in  a  brilliant  array  of  mind-pictures, 
and  great  names  made  sacred  by  the  touch  of 
genius  stand  out  boldly  from  the  common  herd, 
and  the  memory  of  mighty  deeds  which  have 
lived  in  fame  thrills  my  soul  with  the  know- 
ledge that  men  worthy  of  the  great  gift  of  life 
have  once  lived  !  The  fire  will  burn  on  with 
vivid  heat  and  light  as  reminiscences  such  as 
these  thicken  and  multiply,  and  I  shall  come 
at  last  really  to  understand  what  I  now  only 
dimly  feel. 

Your  poor  friend  Bucci  at  Civita  Vecchia 
tore  himself  in  two  for  us.  I  never  met  such 
a  complaisant,  self-sacrificing  individual.  Your 
name  acted  like  an  open  sesame  with  him,  and 
he  abjectly  laid  himself  and  his  treasures  at 
our  feet. 

CCLXV 

Paris,  iZth  June  1.863. 
I  believe  these  hurried  meetings  are  almost 
more  unsatisfactory  than  actual  absence,  what 
is  your  sage  view  on  the  subject  ?  I  never 
did  quite  agree  with  the  opinion  that  half  a 
loaf  is  better  than  no  bread,  but  on  the  contrary 
have  clung  to  the  tout  on  rieti  principle.  That 
my  mind  is  in  an  extremely  vacuous  state  you 
will  have  already  perceived,  and  lest  I  should 
be  tempted  to  string  a  still  longer  chaplet  of 
worn-out  old  proverbs,  as  an  English  clergyman 


CCLXVI    PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '         265 

who  is  not  gifted  with  the  art  of  sermon-making 
strings  texts,  I  will  close  with  the  assurance  that 
your  Cosaque  has  pleased  me  immensely,  and  I 
prophesy  for  it  un  grand  succes. 


CCLXVI 

Dieppe,  loth  August  1863. 
I  have  been  wondering  this  morning  which 
were  the  most  to  be  envied — people  with  strong 
capacities  for  enjoyment,  and  the  corresponding 
powers  of  suffering ;  or  people  of  a  stolid, 
phlegmatic  nature,  feeling  neither  joy  nor 
sorrow  very  keenly,  taking  things  as  they  come, 
not  eating  their  hearts  out  with  intense  antici- 
pation, or  exhausting  them  with  devouring 
possession,  or  feeling  them  ache  beyond  bearing 
with  the  Weltschmerz  which  Goethe  tells  of  in 
such  comprehensive  words — that  world-weari- 
ness for  which  he  tried  every  known  cure,  yet 
which  cursed  so  large  a  part  of  his  life  ?  The 
natural  disposition  of  man  is  to  be  happy,  and 
if  one  thing  fails  in  giving  him  happiness  he 
tries  another ;  only  some  do  this  in  a  calm 
methodical  way,  with  no  expense  of  heart's 
blood  and  the  wine  of  life  ;  while  others  drain 
both  at  one  mad  straining  venture  to  compel 
fate  to  slake  their  burning  thirst,  no  matter 
what  may  be  the  consequences.  Dregs  alone 
cannot   be    pleasant   food  and    drink  later  on, 


266  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  coi-xviii 

when  the  thirst  and  hunger  come  again,  especi- 
ally if  the  years  are  long  through  which  they 
must  serve  as  daily  sustenance.  A  short  life 
and  a  merry  one  ;  is  that,  I  wonder,  the  message 
which  the  cool  salt  sea  brings  as  it  rolls  in  on 
crested  waves,  leaving  little  lines  of  pearly  foam 
on  the  sand  at  my  feet  ?  How  I  wish  I  could 
clearly  decipher  the  meaning  of  the  sea,  with 
its  many-toned  voices  and  its  hoary  wisdom  of 
all  time!  It  knows  so  much,  if  only  it  would 
speak. 

Write  to  me  from  London,  which  place  you 
will,  I  fear,  find  almost  empty,  save  for  the 
millions  of  toilers  who,  by  the  conceited  decree 
of  a  select  few  hundred,  are  ignored,  and  not 
supposed  to  exist.      Adieu,  cher  ami. 


CCLXVII 

(Letter  missing) 


CCLXVIII 


,  \st  October  1863. 

Three  people  lately  have  asked  me  if  I  have 
read  the  book  you  mentioned  in  your  last  letter, 
Une  Saison  d  Paris,  which  did  not  particularly 
tempt  me  after  your  little  story  of  its  author 
and  her  curious  attempt  to  make  a  favourable 
impression  on   his  Majesty.      I  remember  you 


ccLXix     PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '        267 

fancied  that  this  story  might  cause  me  to  make 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  which  should  I  make 
each  time  your  stories  suggest  its  beneficial 
effect,  would,  I  fear,  be  brought  into  contempt 
by  too  frequent  application.  La  Vie  de  Jesus ^ 
by  Renan,  I  mean  to  read  so  soon  as  a  little 
tranquillity  creeps  into  my  life  again  ;  it  has 
lately  been  one  continued  racket,  not  conducive 
to  anything  so  serious  as  this  book.  I  wonder 
if  Renan  will  explain  a  point  which  has  always 
puzzled  me  ;  why,  if  Jesus  in  mercy  really  came 
into  the  world  to  save  all  sinners,  does  He  so 
relentlessly  limit  the  number  to  a  paltry  few  ? 

You  must  by  this  time  be  at  Cannes,  or 
certainly  ett  route  for  that  place,  so  I  will  send 
these  few  lines  there  in  hopes  of  a  long  letter 
full  of  news. 


CCLXIX 


,  20///  October  1863. 

Pas  possible  to  be  in  Paris  in  November.      I 
have   made   an  engagement  with  Madame  de 

C to   go   wherever   she   fancies    for    that 

month.  She  is  far  from  well,  but  always  such 
a  good  friend  that  I  would  do  much  to  keep 
her  friendship.  Besides,  do  I  not  know  by  sad 
experience  what  your  ^^ peut-etre"  means  when 
applied  to  Compiegne  or  to  any  of  the  Royal 
residences  ?  You  are  growing  to  be  too  good 
a  courtier,  and  in  consequence  I  suffer.      Is  this 


268  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  CCLXX 

not  so  ? — own  it  frankly,  and  you  will  have  a 
better  chance  of  forgiveness. 

I  was  reading  only  this  morning  what 
Stendhal  says  of  Don  Juan,  that  it  must  always 
be  a  popular  poem  because  in  it  "  il  y  a  dti 
diable  et  de  Vamoitrr  Odd,  is  it  not,  how 
often  those  two  words  find  themselves  in  a 
close  proximity?  I  do  not  feel  in  the  least 
affectionate  to-day — the  softer  passions  look  a 
little  fade  in  the  hard  brightness  of  the  autumn 
sunshine.  You  have  grown  to  be  such  a  sage 
I  scarcely  know  you  for  my  friend  of  the 
stormy  days  when  our  chief  delight  lay  in  the 
childish  tormenting  of  each  other.  When  you 
grow  less  wise  perchance  my  affection  for  you 
may  return. 

CCLXX 

2(ith  Novembe?  1863. 
You  can  no  longer,  mon  ami,  monopolise  all 
the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to.  I  have  a  wretched 
cold,  and  am  as  hoarse  as  a  revolutionist  who 
has  injured  his  vocal  cords  for  life  by  shouting 
a  has  la  tyrannie  I  Par  exemple,  votes  vous 
amusez  Men  at  Compiegne  in  your  new  role  of 
impresario.  What  did  I  say  about  your  ^^ peut- 
etre"?  and  of  what  earthly  use  would  it  have 
been  for  me  to  come  to  Paris  in  order  to  see 
you,  while  you  passed  your  time  some  dozens 
of  miles  away  in  instructing  young  ladies  how 


CCLXX     PROSPER  M^RIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE'  269 

to  rival  ballet  dancers?  You  might  judge 
from  my  style  of  writing  that  I  am  not  only 
cross  but  jealous,  in  which,  however,  you  would 
be  entirely  mistaken.  I  am  delighted  that  you 
are  enjoying  your  visit,  and  your  story  of  your 
young  lady  with  jambes  like  deux  flageolets 
made  me  laugh  heartily  ;  but  the  Hauptsache, 
as  the  Germans  say,  is  that  you  are  well,  and 
that  your  too  attentive  aches  and  pains  seem 
for  the  moment  to  have  forgotten  you.  Be 
careful,  however  ;  do  not  overdo  it,  and  lay  up 
a  nice  little  crop  of  consequences  for  future  dis- 
comfiture. You  complain  that  I  write  too 
laconically,  and  do  not  answer  your  questions  ; 
that  I  commit  an  indefinite  number  of  other 
indiscretions,  including  a  non- mention  of  the 
charming  child  who  so  interests  me.  How 
difficult  it  is  to  please  people !  The  tender 
conscience  I  possess  having  reproached  me 
with  writing  too  much  about  the  little  one,  I 
have  purposely  abstained  from  boring  you  with 
her  perfections,  or  dwelling  upon  my  love  for 

her.     She  spent  some  time  with  me  at , 

delighting  me  as  usual  with  her  growing  intel- 
ligence and  beauty.  At  present  certainly  there 
seems  no  danger  of  her  being  sotte,  and  if  any 
influence  I  possess  can  save  her  from  that  awful 
fate  you  may  count  upon  its  being  exerted  to 
do  so.  What  a  future  contact  with  society  in 
its  present  state  may  do  for  her  it  is  of  course 
impossible  to  say.     Adieu. 


270  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cuLXXil 

CCLXXI 

Paris,  2)(^ January  1864. 
We  arrived  here  yesterday,  just  missing  New 
Year's  Day,  which  I  am  rather  glad  to  have 
escaped.  I  had  hoped  to  find  a  letter  from 
you,  but  there  is  none,  and  I  am  most  anxious 
to  hear  how  you  are.  Do  write  at  once.  I  am 
reading  Aristophane,  but  expect  to  be  much 
shocked  by  it.  Did  the  Athenian  women  in 
olden  times  assist  at  public  repr Mentations  ? 
In  mad  haste.  M. 

CCLXXII 

Paris,  \6th  Jatmary. 
First  of  all,  are  you  better  ?  In  pity  answer 
yes,  for  I  suffer  with  you  to  the  extent  of  being 
miserable  when  you  tell  me  that  you  are  ill. 
For  my  idea  as  to  ^^  fHe  of  la  Sainte  Eulalie^ 
la  void:  I  am  obliged  to  send  to  London  very 
soon  for  several  things,  let  me  include  your  gift 
to  your  cousin,  and  try  and  find  something  quite 
different  from  your  former  offerings,  something 
made  in  England  and  essentially  English.  Let 
me  know  what  you  think  of  this.  Yes,  we  are 
freezing  here,  and  banked  in  snow.  There  has 
been  horrible  suffering  among  the  poor,  and  the 
empress  as  usual  has  been  the  first  to  make  an 
effort  to  relieve  it.      Naturally  with  such  a  lead 


ccLXXiii    PROSPER  M^RIMEE'S  'INCONNUE'       271 

many  have  followed  suit  from  reasons  best 
known  to  themselves,  but,  whatever  the  reasons, 
the  result  has  been  favourable,  and  a  fair  share 
of  organised  charity  is  working  well  and  doing 
much  good.  How  fortunate  that  you  are  not 
here,  but  are  instead  basking  in  scented  sun- 
shine ;  your  constant  mention  of  the  quantities 
of  flowers,  and  the  balmy  air  at  Cannes,  makes 
me  long  to  go  there  some  time  in  the  near 
future.  So  soon  as  I  am  a  little  settled  and 
have  leisure  for  anything  really  worth  doing,  I 
will  read  Les  Nu^es^  and  pay  particular  attention 
to  the  dialogue  du  Juste  et  de  Hnjuste  which 
you  mention,  trusting  it  may  be  less  shocking 
than  this  terrible  Aristophane,  which  is,  I  grant, 
spiritual,  but  with  an  esprit  encased  in  mud ! 
Adieu  ami  toiijours  cher. 


CCLXXIII 

Paris,  20th  February  1864. 
But  of  course  you  shall  have  your  things 
from  London  whenever  you  like.  Send  your 
order  to  Poole,  and  let  me  know  when  he  will 
have  the  clothes  ready,  the  rest  I  can  manage 
easily.  The  gift  for  the  Sainte  Eulalie  is  already 
ordered.  I  am  more  distressed  than  I  can  say 
at  what  you  tell  me  of  your  cough,  which  I  had 
hoped  was  much  better  in  the  Cannes  sunshine. 
Do  not  think  of  venturing  near  Paris  at  present ; 


272  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cclxxv 

les  grippes  sont  partottty  as  you  have  heard,  and 
you  would  run  great  risk  in  coming  here.  I 
am  off  to  London  in  a  day  or  two,  but  trust  I 
may  not  be  detained  there  longer  than  a  fort- 
night     Adieu. 

CCLXXIV 

Paris, 
Saturday y  i()th  March  1864. 

It  was  good  to  pass  once  again  a  long  happy 
afternoon  with  you,  and  from  now  until  the  1 2th 
of  April,  almost  a  month,  we  shall  be  able  to 
prove  that  the  best  of  letters  is  a  bad  substitute 
for  "  live  intercourse."  Only  do  not  let  us  spoil 
these  hours  of  possession  in  dwelling  upon  the 
swift -coming  ones  of  separation.  That  is  a 
betise  we  have  more  than  once  committed,  and 
is  unworthy  of  two  such  highly -gifted  mortals 
as  we  profess  to  be !     A  demain, 

CCLXXV 

\']thjuly  1864. 

Merely  a  line  to  beg  a  commission  should 
you  go  off  to  Madrid  before  I  see  you  again. 
You  remember  the  moucJioirs  de  Nipi — I  am 
most  anxious  for  some,  and  you  are  so  good 
about  getting  me  all  sorts  of  out-of-the-way 
objects  which  no  one  else  would  be  able  to  dis- 
cover that  I  do  not  hesitate  to  remind  you  of 
these.       Please    do    not    forget    them.       At    a 


CCLXXVI    PROSPER  m£ RIMER'S  ' INCONNUE  '       273 

venture  I  will  send  this  to  the  British  Museum, 
London,  where  you  are  probably  working  far 
harder  than  you  ought  to  work.  If  amiably 
inclined  you  might  send  me  your  actual  address  ; 
it  is  not  every  letter  that  I  should  care  to  send 
off  as  a  chance  shot ! 


CCLXXVI 

Wednesday^  i^th  July  1864. 
What   marvels   you   write   me    about    Lady 

F P 's  marriage.      No  wonder  it  has 

caused  a  sensation,  but  personally  I  should  be 

inclined  to  think  Mr.   C rather  fortunate 

in  discovering  the  tendency  of  the  lady's  pre- 
dilections before  instead  of  after  matrimony  with 

himself     I  once  saw  Lady  H ,  as  I  suppose 

one  must  now    call  her,   and    found   her  very 

lovely  to    look   at,   but   most   of   the    P s 

are  credited  with  possessing  beauty  ;  perhaps 
it  is  their  strongest  recommendation.  Other 
characteristics  which  they  possess  it  is  as  well 

to  keep  strictly  within  the  limits  of  the  P 

family  circle.  As  you  are  returning  so  quickly 
to  Paris  I  will  not  write  again  to  London  unless 
I  hear  that  you  are  still  there. 


CCLXXVII 

(Letter  missing) 

T 


274  ^^  ^ UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cclxxx 

CCLXXVIII 
(Letter  missing) 

CCLXXIX 

Paris,  29/^  December  1864. 
Impossible  to  write  to-day,  as   I  have  taken 
cold   in   my   eyes.      No   handkerchiefs   as  yet. 
Shall  hope  to  send  you  a  longer  letter  on  New 
Year's  Day. 

CCLXXX 

Paris,  New  Year's  Day ^  1865. 

The  rain  and  hail  are  hurtling  against  the 
windows,  the  trees,  snow-sheeted  and  spectral, 
are  gleaming  white  against  a  low-hung  despond- 
ent sky,  and  the  hooting  wind  sounds  like  owls 
at  play  in  the  chimneys.  A  more  utterly  dreary 
day  could  not  well  be  imagined  ;  and  while 
shivering  and  depressed  myself,  I  rejoice  that 
you  are  probably  enjoying  sunshine  and  a 
cheerful  beginning  of  the  year  1865.  Your 
constant  mention  of  ill  health  distresses  me 
beyond  measure,  and  T  hope  much  from  the 
climate  of  Cannes,  which  always  suits  you. 

Who  do  you  think  has  taken  the  apartment 

above  us  ?      Mr.  G and  his  erratic  wife,  and 

his  eight  still  more  erratic  children  I      Only  to 


CCLXXX     PROSPER  M^RIMJ^E'S  ' INCONNUE'       275 

know  that  the  same  house  contains  them  and 
me  is  enough  to  induce  mental  collapse  upon  my 
part,  and  I  devoutly  wish  that  they  had  estab- 
lished themselves  and  their  erraticness  anywhere 
else.  It  is,  I  know,  always  a  mistake  to  feel 
more  for  people  than  they  feel  for  themselves  ; 
but  in  this  case  it  is  so  difficult  not  to  believe 
that  they  must  on  the  face  of  things  feel  a  very 
great  deal,  and  yet  how  can  they,  and  still  con- 
tinue to  go  on  in  the  same  senselessly  erratic 
way  ?  Poor  things,  I  am  sorry  for  them,  but 
they  irritate  me,  and  I  should  be  so  glad  if 
they  would  live  in  some  other  house,  and  some 
other  town,  and  some  other  country ! 

Do  not  worry  over  those  handkerchiefs. 
They  will  probably  turn  up  all  right,  and  if 
they  do  not,  no  great  harm  will  be  done.  I 
will  go  out  just  as  soon  as  this  mad  wind  and 
rain  have  finished  their  wild  games,  and  find 
you  a  nice  lot  of  English  books,  for  you  are 
quite  right,  at  Christmas-time  there  are  gener- 
ally plenty  to  choose  from,  good,  bad,  and  in- 
different, mostly  the  latter.  I  too  have  been 
reading  Madame  du  Deffand's  Letters^  which  I 
found  amusing.  She  must  have  been  a  delight- 
fully witty  and  wicked  old  woman.  Her 
opinions  and  readings  of  character  are  some- 
times uncommonly  shrewd.  I  hope  that  you 
finished  the  thirty-five  letters  still  left  for  you 
to  write  after  concluding  your  last  to  me.  Is 
it  strange  that  the  rest  you  go  away  to  obtain 


276  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cclxxxi 

does  you  little  or  no  good  ?  How  can  it 
benefit  you  in  any  way  when  you  will  persist 
in  working  whether  you  feel  equal  to  it  or  not  ? 
Come  now,  begin  this  New  Year  wisely,  take 
care  of  yourself  first,  and  let  work  come  second. 
Ah  love,  love,  remember  that  you  are  yourself 
In  all  this  crowded  world  no  one  could  ever 
take  your  place  in  any  way,  least  of  all  in  the 
heart  and  devotion  of  Mariquita. 


CCLXXXI 

Paris,  i^^d January. 
I  have  heard  nothing  in  regard  to  your  works 
or  the  proofs.  Shall  I  go  to  Michel  Ldvy  and 
make  inquiries  or  in  any  way  hurry  them  ?  I 
did  not  like  to  do  so  without  asking  you.  I 
once  told  you  that  the  actual  meaning  of  the 
word  aggravation  was  an  English  lawyer,  but  I 
was  wrong  ;  make  it  publisher  every  time,  choos- 
ing any  nationality  you  like,  one  seems  as  bad 
as  another.  They  are  maddening,  infuriating, 
exasperating.  Let  me  hear  at  once  just  what 
steps  you  would  like  me  to  take.  Delighted  as 
I  should  be  at  seeing  you  back  here,  do  not,  I 
beg  of  you,  run  any  risk  in  leaving  Cannes  too 
soon.  You  will  find  me  here  whenever  you 
come,  because  I  shall  wait  here  for  you,  but  do 
get  all  the  good  that  Cannes  air  and  Cannes 
sunshine  can  give. 


ccLxxxii    PROSPER  MArIM&E'S  'INCONNUE'      277 

CCLXXXII 

Paris,  i^th  April  1865. 
Cher  ami,  your  letter  has  caused  me  such 
unhappiness  that  I  think  I  could  not  bear  the 
same  were  it  to  come  often.  It  is  cruel  that 
you  of  all  men  should  be  thus  doomed  to  a  life 
of  suffering,  and  I  would  not  blame  you  for 
feeling  neither  courage  nor  resignation,  even  if 
this  were  true,  whereas  I  know  how  much  in- 
justice you  do  yourself  by  saying  that  it  is. 
There  are  such  relative  degrees  of  courage,  and 
such  different  phases  of  resignation.  But  you 
will  see,  I  feel  quite  sure  of  it,  that  this  return 
of  steady  fine  weather  will  make  a  difference. 
You  must  be  better  when  it  is  dry  and  sunny 
than  when  there  is  wind  and  rain,  and  it  is,  1 
feel  convinced,  from  the  ill  effects  of  the  long- 
continued  bad  weather  that  you  are  still  suffer- 
ing ;  just  the  first  few  fine  days  cannot  counter- 
act that  at  once,  but  you  will  see,  as  it  continues 
fine  you  will  continue  steadily  to  improve.  It 
must  be  so.  You  know  that  really  you  have 
immense  courage,  more  than  most  people,  your 
depression  is  merely  the  effect  of  this  unusual 
state  of  the  atmosphere  at  Cannes,  where  by  all 
the  rules  of  equity  and  justice  there  ought  to  be 
only  the  bluest  and  sunniest  and  most  beautiful 
effects.  All  unusual  things  upset  one,  the 
human  animal  being  naturally  unpliable  and  set 
in  his  ways,  to  use  a  good  old-time  expression. 


278  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  coLxxxiii 

Your  account  of  the  scandal  connected  with 
Lord  Brougham  interested  me,  as  I  know 
several  members  of  the  family.  When  the 
English  do  indulge  in  scandals  what  monsters 
they  are !  None  of  your  little  petty  delin- 
quencies or  half-hearted  misdemeanours,  but  the 
w\\o\q  flagrante  delicto  ;  no  reading  between  the 
lines,  but  the  complete  three -volume  novel  ; 
large  print,  wide  margin,  brilliant  cover,  with 
the  price  marked  in  legible  figures.  They  go 
in  pretty  thoroughly  for  the  comprehensive 
saying  that  one  might  as  well  be  hung  for  a 
sheep  as  for  a  lamb,  and  I  think  it  is  perhaps  a 
question  whether  they  are  not  tolerably  right. 

Send  me  better  news  as  soon  as  you  feel  up 
to  writing,  but  never  attempt  a  letter  to  me 
unless  you  are  sure  that  a  chat  will  do  you 
good,  and  the  act  of  chatting  not  do  you  harm. 


CCLXXXIII 

Munich,  i$thjuly. 
We  have  followed  strictly  the  plan  of  voyage 
which  you  laid  out,  going  by  Bale,  Constance, 
Lindau,  and  Kempton,  and  now  for  the  past  ten 
days  we  have  been  settled  at  the  Hotel  Bavi^re, 
"  doing "  Munich  most  conscientiously  but 
spending  most  of  our  time  in  the  galleries,  the 
new  and  the  old  Pinacothek.  Do  you  remember 
in  the  former  such  a  pretty  little  modern   pic- 


ccLXXXiii    PROSPER  M^RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '     279 

ture  called  "  The  First  Snow,"  where  the  old 
grandfather  holds  up  a  baby  wrapped  in  a 
blanket,  while  a  second  child  stands  beside  him, 
and  the  soft  star  flecks  fall  over  them  all  ?  It 
is  a  most  simple  composition,  but  for  some 
reason  it  touched  me,  perhaps  because  as  a 
child  I  always  had  dreamy  fancies  about  the 
snow.  I  saw  so  much  in  the  star-shaped  flakes, 
and  it  seemed  so  wonderful  to  me  that  such 
small  soft  things  could  mass  together  into  broad 
white  silvery  sheets,  covering  field  and  meadow 
and  all  trace  of  path  and  road,  and  could  go  on 
mounting  higher  and  higher  and  packing 
closer  and  closer,  and  all  so  silently  ;  the  little 
feathery  stars  coming  finally  to  resist  in  their 
cold  white  strength  powerful  men,  and  beasts, 
and  iron  ploughs.  I  think  my  first  realisation 
of  accumulated  strength  from  small  beginnings 
came  from  this  childish  impression  of  the  snow, 
which,  like  so  many  other  impressions,  fall  into 
the  mind  and  lie  hidden  there  until  some 
practical  application  hunts  them  out.  They 
told  us  too,  such  wonderful  nursery  tales  about 
the  snow,  that  Mother  Carey  was  picking  her 
chickens  when  it  fell ;  or  that  downy  feathers 
from  angels'  wings  were  fluttering  through  the 
skies  ;  or  that  all  the  plants  and  fruits  were 
dead  and  Dame  Nature  made  them  every  year 
a  shroud  to  cover  them  for  the  winter's  burial. 
What  an  odd  conglomeration  of  wisdom  and 
nonsense  children's  minds   are  fed    on !     Poor 


28o  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cclxxx \s 

little  wretches,  life  is  puzzling  enough  to  their 
half- awakened  minds  without  confusing  them 
still  further  by  the  rubbish  grown-up  people 
seem  to  think  the  only  food  suited  to  their  poor 
little  starving  mental  stomachs.  But  I  have 
wandered  very  far  from  Munich  and  the  present 
time,  and  all  because  of  having  looked  at  a 
little  wistful  child  gazing  at  the  snow. 

I  laugh  whenever  I  see  a  pair  of  green 
woollen  stockings  and  the  "jambes  bavaroises " 
encased  within  them  !  Should  you  really  like 
to  see  me  wear  such  things  ?     fen  doiite. 


CCLXXXIV 

Berne,  29/A  August. 

Your  letter  from  London  has  been  forwarded 
to  me  here,  where  we  are  detained  on  account 

of   Madame  de    C having    sprained    her 

ankle.  Why  in  your  account  of  your  visit  to 
Mr.  Gladstone  did  you  not  tell  me  more  of  the 
man  himself?  You  know  the  immense  interest 
which  I  take  in  him,  the  intense  admiration 
which  I  have  for  him.  If  ever  a  man  had  a 
future  it  is  he,  and  one  of  his  characteristics 
appeals  peculiarly  to  me,  I  mean  his  strong 
personal  influence,  magnetism  it  may  almost  be 
called,  so  great  a  hold  does  it  take  upon  one's 
imagination.  I  felt  it  myself  during  the  one 
or  two  days  when  I  met  him  long  ago  at  Lady 


ccLXXXiv  PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE'      281 


-'s,  I  should  feel  it  again,  I  am  certain,  if 


I  could  again  be  in  his  society.  A  man  with 
that  gift  must,  I  think,  always  be  a  leader  of 
men.  What  do  you  mean  by  the  sentence  you 
use  in  describing  him,  that  ^^  II  y  a  en  lui  de 
I' enfant^  de  Vhomme  d'J^tat  et  du  Fou  "  ?  What 
a  combination !  I  think  I  know  what  you 
mean  by  the  touch  of  the  child  about  him  ;  it  is 
a  trait  which  I  have  noticed  more  than  once 
accompanying  great  intellect  and  genius.  The 
signs  of  a  madman  were  certainly  not  discern- 
ible when  I  saw  him  ;  they  may  have  developed 
since.  If  you  really  return  to  Paris  next  week 
I  will  try  my  best  to  meet  you  there.  My 
doing  so,  however,  will  depend  entirely  on  the 

state  of  Madame  de  C *s  ankle,  which  is  a 

positive  nuisance.  And  it  was  so  quickly  done 
and  so  senselessly.  We  were  watching  the 
bears  in  the  pit ;  the  creatures  were  so  absurd 
that  we  grew  quite  excited  over  their  ungainly 
antics.  There  was  a  crowd  around  the  place 
as  usual,  and  in  trying  to  get  nearer  to  the  edge 
in  order  to  look  over  at  a  fascinating  little 
beast  quite  at  the  bottom  of  the  great  round 
space,  where  he  was  hugging  a  little  brother  as 
if  he  held  his  worst  enemy  to  his  heart,  and 
did  not  mean  to  release  him  until  every  bone 

cracked,  poor  Madame  de  C stepped  on  a 

loose  stone,  and,  presto  change  !  the  deed  was 
done,  she  was  laid  up  a  prisoner,  and  I  neces- 
sarily am  a  captive  with  her. 


282  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cclxxx v 


CCLXXXV 

Bale,  5M  October  1865. 

How  good  of  you  to  keep  a  proof  for  me  of 
your  article  on  the  Life  of  ftdius  Ccesar ;  I 
shall  prize  it  highly ;  I  like  the  outline  you 
give  me  of  your  treatment  of  the  subject,  and 
so  far  as  I  can  judge  it  seems  to  me  you  have 
cleverly  attained  the  juste  milieu,  a  most  diffi- 
cult point  to  reach  in  anything.  No,  frankly, 
I  do  not  understand  a  word  of  your  story  of 

the  son  of  Prince  C who  died  at  Rome. 

The  wording  of  his  will  would  certainly  incline 
one  to  think  him  a  little  mad,  but  who  is  not, 
upon  one  point  or  another?  It  strikes  me 
altogether  as  being  a  mad  world,  peopled  by 
madmen.  Looking  at  things  in  general  from 
this  standpoint,  one  may  be  able  to  comprehend 
one's  fellows,  not  otherwise.  Does  it  not,  for 
instance,  argue  acute  mania  as  the  malady  from 
which  I  suffer,  that  years  may  come  and  years 
may  go  and  Time  go  on  for  ever,  yet  still,  in 
spite  of  all,  my  creed  never  changes,  and  can 
still  be  read  in  three  short  words — "  I  love 
you "  ?  Would  any  college  of  physicians 
hesitate  to  declare  this  madness  of  the  most 
hopeless  kind  ?  Are  you,  too,  not  mad  in  trust- 
ing to  my  love?  Surely  you  never  can  have 
read  that  wise  proverb — "  Trust  your  dog  to  the 
end,  a  woman  till  the  first  opportunity."     Much 


CCLXXXV    PROSPER  mARIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'       283 

wisdom  is  here  condensed  in  quantity,  but 
eloquent  with  truth.  Mad,  mad,  mad  !  yes,  all 
the  world  is  mad,  and  all  the  men  and  women 
in  it !  Only  little  children  are  really  sane,  and 
they  merely  because  the  shock  has  not  yet 
come  which  will  knock  reason  from  her  throne. 
They  have  not  yet  trusted  and  been  deceived  ; 
not  yet  loved  and  been  deserted ;  not  yet 
learned  that  civility  means  self-interest ;  that 
fame  is  in  reality  only  a  worthless  tinsel  badge  ; 
that  honour,  in  the  eyes  of  men,  may  be  bought 
at  the  cost  of  self-respect ;  that  gold  can  turn 
to  rust,  and  success  grow  bitter  as  the  apples 
of  Sodom ;  that  all  earth's  promises,  which 
glitter  so  temptingly,  never  yet  have  stood  the 
test  of  time.  When  knowledge  such  as  this 
comes  home  to  the  human  breast,  then  all  that 
is  childlike  and  sane  falls  tremblingly  away, 
and  men  grow  mad  with  knowing  what  life 
really  is.  Perchance  a  few  may  find  an  honest 
thing  to  take  the  place  of  life's  delusions.  If 
so,  no  longer  mad,  but  happy  trusting  fools, 
they  would  show  rare  wisdom  could  they  hold 
it  tight,  trust  to  it,  believe  in  it,  love  it,  pray 
to  it,  live  by  it,  die  in  its  blessed  hope  of  rest 
and  eternal  good  with  holy  confidence  in  its 
reality. 

Mad  friend,  good-night.  So  madly  have  I 
loved  you,  ay,  so  love  you  still,  that  the  mere 
fact  of  writing  it  proves  me  mad ! 


28+  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cclxxxvii 

CCLXXXVI 

(Letter  missing) 

CCLXXXVII 

Paris,  New  Year's  Eve,  1866. 
Are  you  lost,  mon  ami?  Do  you  never 
mean  to  write  to  me  again  ?  That  you  are 
not  suffering  I  feel  almost  sure,  so  strong  a 
belief  have  I  in  the  fact  that  ill  news  never 
tarries  in  the  telling.  Let  me  begin  the  coming 
year  with  the  assurance  of  your  wellbeing  and 
your  continued  affection  for  myself;  no  other 
commencement  of  this  fresh  era  of  existence 
would  suit  my  mood.  Not  a  line  have  I  had 
from  you  since  your  letter  dated  somewhere  in 
the  early  existence  of  the  month  of  November, 
when  you  asked  me  conundrums  about  Victor 
Hugo's  mental  state.  Some  time  ago.  I  told 
you  all  the  world  was  mad,  why  should  you 
wish  to  isolate  the  poet  from  this  list  ?  You 
know  well,  however,  that  you  did  not  mean 
what  you  said  when  writing  that  you  were 
inclined  to  think  he  had  always  been  "fou." 
I  have  more  than  once  heard  you  express  a 
very  different  opinion  of  him  and  of  his  works. 
As  to  the  Chansons  des  Rues  et  des  Bois,  I  grant 
you,  there  is  a  good  deal  of  feebleness  about 
parts  of  them,  but  there  is  still  sufficient  matter 


ccLXXxvii  PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'     285 

left  in  the  subject  of  Victor  Hugo  and  his 
madness  to  afford  us  several  battles  royal  when 
we  meet,  if  that  happy  event  ever  again  takes 
place.  You  speak  in  joke  about  the  book 
dealing  with  Moses,  David,  and  Saint  Paul,  but 
there  is  more  truth  than  you  imagine  in  a  later 
sentence  of  your  letter  where  you  say  that  you 
know  I  do  not  like  conversation  upon  such 
subjects.  No,  it  may  be  weak,  and  doubtless 
shows  great  want  of  intellect  upon  my  part, 
but  the  only  faith  I  have  any  faith  in,  is  the 
blind  unquestioning  one  of  a  child.  Did  I 
once  seriously  investigate  it,  once  apply  the 
tests  of  reason,  intellect,  common  sense  if  you 
will,  to  the  foundations  of  it,  I  should  be  lost 
in  the  hopeless  labyrinth  of  it.  The  vision  of 
that   Anglican    priest    I    met   in   such    curious 

fashion  at  D comes  before  me  as  I  write 

this.  Tempt  me  not.  If  I  could  honestly 
believe  the  teachings  of  the  Catholics  and  their 
Church,  then  would  I  unhesitatingly  be  of  them ; 
but  as  yet  I  cannot,  therefore  in  pity  leave  me 
what  you  call  the  silly  credulity  to  which  I  yet 
cling — the  old  devil  with  cloven  hoof,  the  cruci- 
fied God  man  Christ  Jesus,  a  hell  where  bad 
people  go,  and  a  heaven  peopled  with  good 
angels.  Crude  it  may  be,  utterly  senseless  you 
believe  it  to  be  ;  all  quite  true  the  child  thinks 

it.      She  is  again  with  me,  Madame  de   P 

having  consented  to  the  plan,  and  I  delight  in 
her. 


286  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cclxxxviii 

I  have  heard  P^re  Hyacinthe  several  times 
lately,  and  find  him  both  earnest  and  eloquent. 
Adieu,  tachez  d^^crire  plus  souvent  d  voire  ainie 
toujourSf  M. 


CCLXXXVIII 

Paris,  i  stk  February. 

Oh,  how  lazy  you  are  to  write  so  seldom ; 
you  deserve  that  my  letters  should  cease  en- 
tirely ;  but  a  forgiving  disposition  forbids  my 
treating  you  with  such  severity.  I  will  try 
other  means,  will  be  so  seductive  in  my  language 
and  withal  so  chary  of  my  news,  that  in  very 
self-defence  you  will  "  beg  for  more."  There 
are  more  ways  than  one  of  treating  refractory 
mortals,  and  always  there  remains  the  old 
saying  to  fall  back  upon — "  Birds  that  can  sing, 
and  won't  sing,  must  be  made  to  sing."  Eh 
Men,  mon  oiseau,  chantez.  Tell  me  of  yourself, 
your  occupations,  your  surroundings.  It  is  odd 
that  I  have  never  been  to  Cannes,  never  been 
tempted  there  even  by  your  presence.  I  know 
the  place  is  delightful,  the  society,  as  a  rule, 
charming,  the  climate  perfection  ;  still,  as  I  say, 
it  has  never  yet  tempted  me. 

On  reading  this  production  of  my  pen  I  find 
it  quite  as  insipid  as  I  intended  to  make  it — 
no  news,  and  nothing  in  the  least  entertaining  ; 
but  when   I   tell  you  that  my  thoughts  by  day 


CCLXXXix    PROSPER  M^RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE''     2S7 

and  my  dreams  by  night  are  all  tinged  with 
rosy -tinted  hopes  of  hearing  from  you,  of  re- 
ceiving a  letter  quickly,  telling  of  repentance 
upon  your  part  for  the  past,  and  resolution  of 
amendment  for  the  future,  I  know  that  you  will 
show  by  your  speedy  answer  that  I  have  not 
written  in  vain. 


CCLXXXIX 

Paris,  2  2,d  February. 

Endlich,  as  the  Germans  say.  At  last  a 
letter  of  the  right  sort  with  but  the  one  draw- 
back— where  you  tell  me  in  it  that  you  have 
found  means  to  take  fresh  cold  in  spite  of  the 
fine  weather.  Badly  managed  this,  my  friend, 
very  badly  ;  still  you  assure  me  in  the  same 
sentence  that  you  are  better  this  year  than  you 
were  last,  and  that,  at  least,  is  something.  Yes, 
for  the  moment  crinoline  and  the  monstrosities 
in  which  it  has  indulged  during  the  past  few 
months  are  condemned  ;  you  will  find  us  all 
far  less  voluminous  on  your  return,  mais  toujours 
femmes  !  Your  letter  deserved  a  far  longer  and 
more  worthy  answer,  but  it  is  the  old  story, 
my  wretched  eyes  have  given  out,  and  I  dare 
not  tax  them  too  severely. 


288  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccxo 


ccxc 


Chateau  de 


Midfiight^  \  2th  April. 

Ah  but  worse,  ten  thousand  times  worse  than 
mere  fatalite  !  I  find  no  word  in  my  dictionary 
strong  enough  to  describe  the  situation.  Not 
to  meet  for  months,  and  then  to  miss  each 
other  in  the  same  spot  by  just  two  hours — No, 
no  expression  I  have  ever  heard  is  adequate  to 
tell  what  I  think  of  this.  My  visit  is  spoiled, 
^ela  va  sans  dire^  but  it  will  soon  be  over,  which 
is  a  cause  for  thankfulness.  And  you  are  right 
in  your  supposition  that  I  shall  return  to  Paris 
at  once,  contrary  to  the  customs  of  common 
mortals  at  this  season  of  the  year.  To  those 
who  will  the  country  and  all  its  delights,  Paris 
holds  at  present  that  which  I  most  care  for, 
and  to  Paris  my  steps  will  follow  my  already 
departed  heart  as  promptly  as  the  decencies  of 
social  life  permit,  and  I  can  say  adieu  to  my 
pleasant  host  and  hostess.  I  fear  they  find  me 
but  tepidly  exciting  as  a  guest !  To-night  so 
many  memories  come  to  me,  fresh  and  living, 
not  as  ghosts  of  the  past.  "  Only  one  thing 
really  counts,"  this  they  say  one  and  all  the 
same.  "  Only  one  thing  ;  love.  It's  the  only 
thing  that  tells  in  the  long-run  ;  nothing  else 
endures  to  the  end  ;  nothing  else  is  of  any 
worth."  And  to-night  I  think  with  them  ;  to- 
night   I    firmly    believe    that    there    are    more 


ccxci      PROSPER  M&RIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE'  289 

deeply-dyed  sins  than  those  of  love  ;  I  believe 
that  many  sins  can  be  washed  away  by  love  or 
become  purified  and  redeemed.  What  is  there 
that  love  cannot  hallow  ?  Barren  places  of  the 
earth  blossom  and  become  green  if  love  smiles 
upon  them  ;  darkness  turns  to  light ;  loneliness 
to  a  peopled  world  of  sympathy  and  union  ; 
doubts  become  blessed  truths  ;  all  things  mortal 
and  tangible,  shadowy  and  unreal,  touched  by 
the  magic  of  love,  lose  every  power  of  evil  and 
turn  each  ill  to  good.  To-night  I  say  I  believe 
all  this.  Should  I  doubt  it  when  day  brings 
the  sun  and  piercingness,  I  will  think  how  few 
the  hours  now  are  which  still  remain  to  die 
before  I  and  conviction  are  reunited,  for  \i  once 
we  meet  again,  you  and  I,  face  to  face,  love's 
triumph  is  assured,  and  all  things  else  must  fall 
helplessly  defeated. 


CCXCI 

Tours,  24/^  August  1866. 
My  very  best  congratulations  ;  the  little  red 
rosette  of  the  Legion  d'Honneur  has  never  been 
more  appropriately  bestowed ;  I  am  most 
anxious  to  see  it  in  your  button-hole.  Pray 
do  not  grow  conceited  as  these  increasing 
honours  are  showered  upon  you  !  I  have  always 
believed  that  a  moment  comes  in  the  successful 
V 


290  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ■     ccxci 

life  of  a  mortal,  man  or  woman,  when  if  it  is 
passed  with  wisdom  and  dignity,  that  mortal 
becomes  delightful ;  he  has  deserved  all  that 
fortune  has  brought  him,  and  can  bear  without 
embarrassment  fortune's  favours ;  or  else  he 
becomes  odious,  if  this  critical  turning  has  not 
been  well  passed  ;  and  his  nature  develops  a 
weak  spot  which  success  has  proved  too  much 
for.  The  time  that  we  have  just  spent  together 
was,  I  think,  almost  the  happiest  of  my  life. 
Ah,  love  me,  mon  atni,  whatever  comes,  love 
me  !  Has  the  world  changed  since  men  thought 
it  good  to  love,  natural  to  trust,  wise  to  believe  ? 
I  sometimes  think  it  has  when  I  am  away  from 
you,  and  hear  men  talk  with  cynical  scepticism 
of  all  that  I  hold  most  sacred  and  most  dear. 
But  I  know  that  one  man  at  least  is  wise,  and 
natural,  and  good,  when  I  am  with  you,  and 
feel  the  strong  affection  which  has  lasted  through 
long  years  and  remained  unchanged. 

Tell  me  what  is  best  worth  seeing  in  this 
part  of  the  world.  Have  you  restored  any  of 
the  buildings  here,  and  if  so,  which  are  they  ? 
I  will  visit  them  and  see  what  I  think  of 
your  restorations.  Do  you  not  tremble  at 
the  thought  of  a  critic  who  does  not  know  the 
A  B  C  of  architecture  ? 

I  feel  rather  lost  in  this  place,  so  write 
quickly  and  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  see. 


ccxcii    PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  291 

CCXCII 

D ,  19M  September. 

I  write  to  Paris  not  knowing  whether  you 
have  yet  left  there  for  Biarritz.  Something  odd 
always  happens  to  me  at  this  place  ;  invariably 
I  meet  people  here  who  interest  me  beyond  the 
common  herd.  Will  you  be  kind  to  a  little 
friend  of  mine  who  has  stupidly  ruined  her  life  ? 
You  remember  the   pretty  little  Mademoiselle 

G who  was  a  good  deal  in  Paris  the  winter 

before  last  ?  I  am  certain  that  I  have  spoken  to 
you  of  her  often,  even  if  you  never  met  her. 
She  was  one  of  the  most  fascinating  little 
beings  I  have  ever  encountered,  extremely 
pretty,  with  a  sad  plaintive  voice  which, 
whether  she  spoke  or  sang,  carried  one's  heart 
with  it.  She  married  Mr.  T — ,  a  cold  un- 
interesting Englishman  who  was  sadly  in  need 
of  a  wife  with  a  dot.  Fond  as  I  was  of  Louise 
T — —  both  before  and  after  her  marriage,  I 
was  perfectly  aware  that  she  was  not  very 
clever,  that  is,  she  had  no  worldly  wisdom  of 
any  kind,  and  a  good  deal  more  heart  than 
head.  The  end  proved  this,  for  one  fine  morning 
about  eighteen  months  after  her  marriage  she 
went  off  to  Biarritz  with  the  young  Comte  de 

B who  had  been  dangling  about  her  for 

years.  You  know  the  sort  of  man  he  is,  with 
a  list  of  conquests  rather  longer  than  Don 
Giovanni's  mille  e  tre^  and  you  can  understand 


292  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cc xc ii 

a  pretty  little  simpleton  being  as  wax  in  his 
hands.  To  my  thinking  the  husband  is  very 
much  to  blame.  He  never  in  any  way  looked 
after  his  wife,  or  tried  to  amuse  her,  or  make 
her  any  sort  of  companion,  but  left  her  entirely  to 
herself,  or  to  the  seductive  charms  of  the  Comte 

de  B .      It  was  not  difficult  to  foresee  who 

would  win  in  that  race,  and  I  am  sometimes 

tempted  to   believe  that  Mr.  T was  well 

content  to  let  things  take  their  course.  Poor 
Louise,  I  can  see  her  now  as  I  write,  with  her 
sweet  face  and  loving  heart,  her  great  wide 
innocent  eyes  like  a  child's,  and  her  low  touching 
voice  which  thrilled  with  a  passion  she  herself 
could  hardly  have  understood.  Well,  it  was 
the  old   story,  only   if   possible   the    Comte   de 

B after  ruining  her  life  treated  her  a  little 

worse  than  they  generally  do  in  old  stories. 
He  simply  planU  her  after  spending  all  the 
money  he  happened  to  have  about  him,  left  her 
as  he  would  have  hesitated  to  leave  a  third- 
class  actress,  and  telegraphed  his  wife  that  he 
was  coming  home.  The  prodigal  of  the  Scrip- 
tures met  with  a  no  less  flattering  welcome 
back  ;  the  fatted  calf  was  killed,  and  Monsieur 
was  feted  by  a  dutiful  wife  and  admiring  family 
and  a  host  of  friends  and  acquaintances,  while 
my  poor  little  Louise  is  left  to  eat  her  heart 
out  at  Biarritz  while  her  husband  gets  his 
divorce.  Will  you  not  go  and  see  her  and  say 
some  friendly  words  to  her  for  me  ?     It  was 


ccxcm   PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '         293 

here  at  D that  I  first  met  her,  and  where 

I  now  hear  what  has  happened  to  her.  I  wrote 
at  once  when  I  heard  it,  and  her  answer  was 
such  a  sad,  heart-broken  little  letter  that  I  long 
to  do  something  for  her.  She  is  far  more 
sinned  against  than  sinning,  but  as  usual  the 
punishment  falls  upon  the  one  least  guilty.  I 
much  fear  that  her  own  family  will  not  be  very 
kind  to  her  in  her  trouble,  and  how  she  is  to 
pass  the  rest  of  her  young  ruined  life  alone, 
God  knows ! 

CCXCIII 

D ,  2'jth  September  1866. 

Our  letters  must  have  crossed  each  other, 
for  the  one  from  you  just  received  bears  the 
date  of  the  24th,  the  very  day  I  wrote.  By  this 
time  you  have  mine  begging  you  to  play  the 
good  Samaritan  as  far  as  it  is  possible  to  my 
poor  unhappy  little  misguided  friend.  Be  very 
gentle  with  her  for  my  sake. 

Your  account  of  your  visit  to  the  grotto  was 
charming.  I  am  sure  that  Biarritz  will  do  you 
immense  good,  for  you  have  to  be  out  in  the 
open  air  so  much  of  the  time  when  there  ;  you 
cannot  say  no,  and  plead  work  as  an  excuse, 
when  the  empress  commands  your  attendance, 
as  I  have  known  you  capable  of  doing  when  a 
more  humble  mortal  begged  for  your  company  ! 
Au  fondy  I  believe   I   am  just  a  trifle  jealous 


294  AN  author's  LOVE  ccxcvi 

of  your  beautiful  empress.  I  fear  me  there  is 
little  chance  this  year  of  my  being  in  Paris  in 
October,  or  even  November  ;  I  have  half  pro- 
mised to  join  some  friends  in  a  trip  to  the 
Italian  Lakes. 

CCXCIV 

Paris,  \st  Jaimajy  1867. 
Only  one  word  to  say  that  I  still  live ;  and, 
in  spite  of  your  long  and  strange  silence,  I  wish 
you  every  good  thing  in  the  coming  New  Year. 

M. 

ccxcv 

Paris, 
Wednesday^  2,d  April  1867. 

I  have  just  arrived  from  London,  and  much 
hope  that  you  will  get  here  to-morrow.  You 
did  not  write  to  me  that  you  were  coming,  and 
my  only  information  is  from  the  newspapers, 
which  assure  me  that  you  have  left  Cannes, 
and  will  reach  Paris  on  the  4th. 


CCXCVI 

Paris, 
Thursday f  2<^th  April. 

I  could  not  come  to  you  to-day,  cher  ami^ 
as  I  promised,  for  my  sister-in-law  and  two  of 
her  children  are  ill,  and  take  up  all  my  time. 


ccxcix     PROSPER  MERIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  '        295 

It  is  the  first  day  that  I  have  missed  seeing 
you  since  our  expedition  to  the  gallery  of  the 
Louvre  on  Friday  the  5  th  of  April,  a  day 
marked  in  my  calendar  with  red  letters  spell- 
ing happiness.  To-morrow  I  will  meet  you 
at  our  old  and  favourite  trysting-place,  unless  I 
hear  that  you  are  unable  to  come. 

Mariquita. 


CCXCVII 
(Letter  missing) 

CCXCVIII 

Paris,  I'jthjune. 
Do  try  and  get  tickets  for  the  distribution 
of  the  prizes  ;  I  am  most  anxious  to  see  the 
ceremony.  The  sultan  and  all  the  foreign 
princes  are  to  be  present,  and  the  whole  affair 
is,  they  say,  to  be  very  brilliant. 


CCXCIX 

Paris,  &,thjuly. 
But  where  were  you  ?   I  searched  everywhere, 
and  was  much  disappointed  at  not  seeing  you. 
I  was  amused,  and  everything  went  off  very  well, 
but  I  missed  you. 


296  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  0C501 

ccc 

,  22,dju!y  1867. 


The  state  of  your  health  is  at  present  the 
subject  nearest  to  my  heart,  therefore  let  us 
begin  at  once  upon  that.  Are  you  still  con- 
fined to  your  room,  still  suffering,  still  low- 
spirited  ?  Oh,  mon  ami,  these  last  happy  months 
have  proved  more  vividly  than  ever  before 
how  dear  you  are  to  me.  Get  well  quickly  ; 
there  is  so  much  still  left  in  life  for  both  of 
us.  I  have  only  just  arrived,  my  maid  is  ill,  and 
I  cannot  find  anything  I  want,  but  I  do  not 
even  stop  to  dress  before  writing  to  you,  so 
anxious  am  I  for  better  news  than  when  I  left 
you.  Write  to  me  as  soon  as  you  feel  equal 
to  the  exertion. 


CCCI 


I  St  September  iSSy. 


I  do  indeed  pity  you  with  all  my  heart,  but 
pity  is  such  a  poor,  unsatisfactory  sort  of  thing 
when  one  does  nothing,  can  do  nothing,  to 
better  the  pain  and  suffering.  Cannot  some- 
thing be  done  for  this  dreadful  sleeplessness  ? 
What  are  doctors  worth  if  they  cannot  find 
some  help  for  you  ?  Why  did  you  send  off 
the  miniature  of  Marie  Antoinette  to  the  em- 
press before  I    had  the   chance   of  seeing   it  ? 


end       PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUP.  *  297 

You  know  my  adoration  for  that  most  unhappy 
queen,  and  my  great  interest  in  anything  and 
everything  relating  to  her.  I  have  not  your 
horror  of  sad  antiquities.  Quite  right  are  you 
to  abuse  me  for  my  stupidity  about  the  proofs, 
but  when  I  say,  like  the  children,  "  I  am  so 
sorry,  and  will  never  do  it  again,"  you  will,  I 
am  sure,  be  merciful.  I  make  a  note  of  the 
articles  you  wish  me  to  read.  You  ask  when 
I  return  to  Paris.  Just  so  soon  as  I  can  pos- 
sibly do  so,  and  in  the  meantime  I  will  look 
up  everything  of  interest  that  I  can  find  which 
may  amuse  you.  Yes,  Luther  did  hate  the 
devil  with  a  good  deal  of  honest  consistency. 
Which  old  castle  is  it  in  Germany  where  they 
show  you  a  large  splash  of  ink  on  the  wall, 
and  tell  you  that  the  Reformer  threw  his  ink- 
bottle  at  his  Satanic  majesty,  who  came  to 
tempt  him  as  he  worked  away  at  his  perfected 
Bible?  I  have  seen  the  ink-stain,  but  forget 
the  name  of  the  Schloss,  I  shall  hope  for  a 
better  account  of  you  in  a  day  or  two.  Your 
last  letter  made  almost  the  tour  du  monde 
before  it  reached  me,  which  must  explain  the 
length  of  time  I  have  seemingly  taken  to 
answer  it. 


CCCII 
(Letter  missing) 


298  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  ccciii 

CCCIII 

,  2 zd  October  1867. 

Cher  ami,  could  you  see  me  you  would  never 
recognise  me,  for  I  am  fast  turning  into  a 
vegetable.  I  no  longer  have  ideas.  My  brain 
has  either  shrivelled  up,  or  evaporated,  or  tout 
bonnenient  died  ;  it  certainly  gives  no  sign  of 
existence.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  stand  by 
and  watch  your  own  brain  depart,  and  yet  it 
rather  fascinates  me.  As  a  prisoner  counts  the 
hours  by  the  sunlight  on  the  wall  of  his  cell 
mounting  higher  and  higher,  I  count  the  time 
still  left  to  my  mental  being  by  finding  each 
day  more  ideas  wanting,  more  empty  spaces 
left.  I  should  like  to  choose  my  vegetable 
when  the  moment  comes  for  the  final  trans- 
formation scene.  I  would  not  be  a  potato,  for 
the  little  elevations  on  its  brown  skin  always 
look  to  me  like  warts ;  neither  woiild  I  be 
a  red  tomato,  its  veins  are  sometimes  hideous  ; 
peas,  beans,  Brussels  sprouts,  all  these  are 
mesquin ;  beets  are  too  winey,  spinach  much 
too  soft,  carrots  look  bilious  ;  no,  on  the  whole, 
I  choose  corn,  it  is  so  clean,  with  smooth, 
pearly-white,  even  grains,  and  it  has  some  pre- 
sence about  it  while  growing,  with  its  dark 
green  leaves  so  tall  and  cool,  and  itself  so 
closely  folded  in  the  tasselled  silk  and  outer 
protection  cover.       Pray   choose    corn    also,   if 


ccciv      PROSPER  M&RIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  '         299 

the  day  ever  comes  when  you  too,  from  force 
of  circumstances,  grow  to  be  a  vegetable. 

Do  what  I  will,  I  cannot  get  away  at  present, 
and  in  this  dreary  spot  my  one  only  comfort 
is  hearing  from  you.  Go  at  once,  I  implore 
you,  to  Liebreich,  and  see  what  the  trouble 
really  is  with  your  eyes.  It  is  so  foolish  to 
neglect  or  put  off  a  thing  of  this  kind,  when  a 
few  minutes  might  make  everything  all  right. 
But  do  not  contemplate  any  such  horror  as  losing 
your  sight.  I  do  not  believe  there  is  anything 
serious  the  matter  with  your  eyes,  and  no 
danger  of  such  a  calamity  as  this.  You  are 
over-worked,  and  the  nerves  of  the  eye  are 
very  sensitive  to  too  long-continued  action  of 
the  brain  ;  that  is  all,  I  feel  certain,  but  all  the 
same,  do  not  lose  another  day  before  consulting 
Liebreich. 


CCCIV 


-,  2d  November  1867. 


Of  course  I  read  the  first  part  of  Tourguenief's 
romance  in  the  Correspondefit  after  you  told  me 
in  your  last  letter  about  correcting  the  proofs, 
but  your  extreme  care  in  retaining  all  the  im- 
proprieties which  the  piously- inclined  Prince 
Augustin  Galitzin  had  in  his  translation  pur- 
posely left  out,  called  for  no  comment.  I  saw 
that  your  effort  to  be  immoral  had  been  snubbed 
as  it  deserved  to  be,  when  in  the  printed  story 


30O  A ^  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cccv 

that  interview  between  Litvinof  and  Irene  was 
cut  down  to  an  hour,  although  as  a  matter  of 
fact  I  should  think  the  exact  time  might  under 
the  circumstances  be  an  unimportant  detail, 
one,  or  two  hours,  the  result  would  probably 
have  been  the  same.  For  your  sake  I  much 
regret  M.  Fould's  death,  but  I  cannot  agree 
with  the  idea  suggested  by  your  words  that  his 
exit  from  life  was  too  sudden  a  one.  To  fall 
asleep  here  and  awake  in  whichever  world  we 
are  destined  to  inhabit  hereafter,  is  surely  the 
best  and  least  troublesome  way  of  making  the 
exchange  of  domicile.  One  gives  no  trouble 
to  one's  friends,  there  is  no  time  for  any  hurried 
making  up  with  Providence,  which  to  my  mind 
is  simply  offering  Providence  a  gratuitous  insult, 
and  there  are  no  heart-breaking  good-byes. 
If  you  are  ready  to  die,  death  does  not  find  you 
unprepared  ;  if  you  are  not  ready,  no  frightened 
entreaties  at  the  last  moment  can  help  you. 
No,  could  I  choose,  I  would  not  hesitate  between 
a  lingering  illness  and  a  sudden  death,  I  would 
ask  humbly  for  the  latter.  Devoutly  hoping 
to  reach  Paris  before  you  leave,  always  your 
loyal  friend. 

CCCV 

Paris,  \oth  December  1867. 
I  have  not  yet  recovered  from  the  disappoint- 
ment of  arriving  here  just  as  you  had  left,  but 


cccv         PROSPER  M&RIMAE'S'INCONNUE'       301 

you  were  so  right  to  go  when  the  sudden  cold 
came.  Are  the  Pope,  Garibaldi,  and  M.  de 
Bismarck  still  the  three  fates  who  are  to  decide 
your  destiny  ?  if  so,  from  the  present  outlook  of 
affairs  your  work  is  cut  out  for  you.  Why 
France  continues  to  dorloter  His  Holiness  while 
he  treats  her  devotion  so  cavalierly  I  cannot 
understand.     Paris  is  detestable. 

My  poor  old  friend   M.   D is   very  ill, 

and  I  think  the  chances  are  that  he  will  bid 
this  world  adieu  very  shortly,  and  without 
getting  any  farther  on  his  journey  to  Rome 
than  this  place  where  he  now  is.  After  all,  he 
is  eighty  years  old  and  his  life  is  a  burden,  yet 
the  poor  old  boy  still  clings  to  this  mortal  coil 
as  though  youth  and  pleasure  were  both  at  his 
command.  It  is  passing  strange  this  love  of 
life  for  mere  life's  sake,  yet  one  sees  it  every 
day  in  wretched  infirm  diseased  creatures  who, 
one  would  think,  might  be  only  too  glad  to 
exchange  it  for  anything  else.  It  is  the  old 
story,  I  suppose,  of  a  comfortable  familiarity  with 
the  ills  one  is  accustomed  to,  and  the  dread  of 
a  bad  bargain  if  they  are  given  up  for  something 
unknown  and  uncomprehended,  even  with  the 
chance  of  its  being  better.  M. 

CCCVI 

(Letter  missing) 


302  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cccvii 

CCCVII 

Paris,  id  February  1868. 
CJier  ami,  I  have  sustained  a  great  loss  in  the 

death  of  my  poor  old   friend   M.   D ,  and 

although  I  had  small  hopes  of  his  recovery  I 
did  not  think  he  would  leave  us  quite  so  soon 
as  he  has.  A  still  larger  space  is  now  left  in 
my  heart  which  your  love  and  friendship  alone 
can  fill  ;  a  still  larger  share  of  affection  is  left 
for  me  to  bestow,  and  I  give  it  all  to  you.  I 
do  indeed  know  you  well  enough  to  understand 
how  this  daily  dragging  monotony  of  suffering 
must  try  you  and  be  far  more  difficult  to  bear 
than  a  sharper  but  less  continued  pain.  Oh, 
what  would  I  not  give  to  be  able  to  do  some- 
thing to  lessen  this  trial  for  you  !  I  can  only 
try  and  help  you  to  bear  it  by  cheering  you  as 
much  as  possible,  and  I  feel  sure  one  smile  at 
least  will  come  to  your  lips  when  I  tell,  you  that 
I  once  in  travelling  met  a  Mormon  Elder,  and 
nothing  Dixon  can  say  in  his  New  America, 
which  you  tell  me  you  have  just  been  reading, 
can  possibly  be  more  funny  than  were  the  "  little 
ways"  of  this  animal.  He  was  a  long  lank 
Yankee,  loose-jointed,  fishy-eyed,  and  altogether 
about  as  unattractive  a  looking  specimen  of  the 
genus  man  as  it  is  possible  to  imagine.  With 
him  were  perhaps  a  dozen  women  and  girls  of 
different  ages,  and  one  pretty  delicate  young 
thing  of  about  nineteen  with  sweet  large  blue 


crcvii    PROSPER  M&RIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '         303 

eyes,  whose  manner  and  appearance  proved  her 
condition  in  life  to  be  far  above  that  of  the  rest 
of  the  party.  To  this  girl  the  Elder's  whole 
attention  was  devoted  ;  the  other  recruits  for 
Salt  Lake  City  experienced  but  scant  considera- 
tion from  the  saint,  as  he  spent  his  time  in  in- 
structing the  beauty  of  the  party  in  the  doctrines 
of  the  Mormon  faith.  A  fellow-traveller  of 
mine  grew  much  interested  in  the  state  of 
affairs,  and  finally  interviewed  the  Elder  and 
learned  several  curious  facts.  To  begin  with, 
very  many  of  the  unfortunate  females  who  go 
out  to  Utah  and  join  the  Mormons  are  respect- 
able English  girls  from  the  large  manufacturing 
towns,  who  are  persuaded  to  do  so  by  just  such 
brethren  as  this  lank -limbed  specimen  whose 
gift  of  speech  by  the  way  must  very  greatly 
have  outweighed  his  charms  of  person.  Once 
arrived  at  the  Mormon  settlement,  Brigham 
Young  has  the  first  choice  of  the  new  aspirants 
for  the  place  of  wife  ;  after  he  has  chosen,  the 
Elders  follow  in  order  of  rank  and  select  the 
new  members  of  their  households.  My  fellow- 
traveller  asked  the  saint  in  question  if  he  meant 
to  marry  the  pretty  girl  he  was  so  attentive  to, 
and  looking  very  sheepish  the  great  awkward 
fellow  said,  if  Brigham  Young  did  not  take  her 
for  himself  he  certainly  meant  to  speak  for  her  ! 
No,  Talleyrand's  mot  about  the  Americans  was 
severe,  but  I  rather  fancy  the  severity  to  have 
been  tempered  with  justice. 


304  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cccviii 

I  was  much  pleased  with  your  tartine  sur 
Pouchkine.  Trusting  that  this  may  find  you 
really  better,  your  friend  always,  M. 


CCCVIII 

Paris,  \^th  February  1868. 

I  sincerely  hope  that  you  will  find  me  in 
Paris  when  you  return,  and  I  shall  make  all  my 
arrangements  with  that  object  in  view.  You 
are  far  too  melancholy  at  present  to  be  left  to 
your  own  devices,  and  it  shall  be  my  first  care 
to  amuse  you ;  also,  we  must  try  and  have 
some  walks  as  in  the  olden  days.  What  a 
difference  there  is  in  the  way  different  people 
and  things,  even  memories,  grow  old.  Some 
events,  which  at  the  time  they  happened  seemed 
to  be  the  veriest  trifles,  grow  unpleasant,  repul- 
sive, absolutely  loathsome,  as  time  passes  and 
they  persistently  take  their  places  in  our  life 
as  unmovable  hateful  souvenirs  ;  while  others 
equally  unimportant  at  the  time  of  happening 
grow  more  tender,  more  winning,  and  infinitely 
more  dear  with  each  day  that  separates  them 
from  the  actual  moment  of  occurrence,  until  to 
part  with  them  would  be  pain  inexpressible. 

I  shall  like  Fimi^e  in  book  form,  milk 
remerciments  for  having  it  bound  for  me  ;  but 
do  not  send  it,  keep  it  and  bring  it  with  you  ; 
when    I    thank    people   whom    I    like,   it    is    a 


cccix      PROSPER  MArIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '         305 

pleasure  to  thank  them  in  person.  Do  you 
know,  I  begin  to  think  that  we  have  had  too 
much  pen,  ink,  and  paper  in  our  mutual  lives — 
you  and  I.  Once,  long  ago,  I  asked  you  if 
you  did  not  think  a  friendship  based  upon  those 
three  things  rather  too  much  of  an  experiment. 
As  an  experiment,  I  am  fain  to  confess  that  it 
has  succeeded  ;  but  I  have  an  idea  which  rather 
haunts  me,  that  we  could  have  been  just  as 
good  and  loyal  friends  without  this  triple  group 
— with  fewer  letters  and  less  absence  from  one 
another.  What  think  you? — does  your  fear  of 
too  close  companionship  bringing  weariness  and 
satiety  shrink  at  this  idea  ?  Have  you  already 
exclaimed,  ^^  Jamais  de  la  vie  !  Elle  est  folW"  ? 
It  is  only  an  idea,  which,  as  I  said,  rather 
haunts  me,  but  the  very  fact  of  its  being' 
haunting  proves  it  to  be  of  another  spirit  world, 
the  wandering  ghost  of  a  lost  and  dead  possi- 
bility.     Let  it  pass  unharmed. 


CCCIX 


\6th  June  1868. 


I  am  here  to  attend  the  marriage  of  Madame 

de  C 's  niece — a  timid,  gentle  little  thing, 

who  is  bound  to  be  miserable  with  the  man 
who  has  been  chosen  for  her — a  boiilevardier  of 
the  most  pronounced  type.  When  she  weeps, 
as  weep  she  most  assuredly  will,  long  and  often, 

X 


3o6  AN  A  UTHOR 'S  LO  VE  cccx i 

let  US  hope  the  vicomtesse's  coronet  embroidered 
in  the  corner  of  the  handkerchief  with  which 
she  dries  her  eyes  will  bring  her  consolation 
solid  enough  to  make  up  for  a  life  which  I 
should  not  call  worth  living.  Chaciin  a  son 
gout !  What  a  mercy  it  is  that  every  one  has 
not  the  same  tastes.  But  to  marry  for  the 
mere  sake  of  marrying  seems  to  be  the  craze 
of  the  moment,  and  if  people  like  to  take  jumps 
in  the  dark,  why  should  one  officiously  torment 
them  with  turning  up  the  gas?  The  15th  of 
July  will  find  me  in  Paris ;  that  is,  at  this 
moment  I  see  nothing  which  can  possibly  pre- 
vent me  from  going  there  ;  but  it  seems  to  me 
that  lately  le  diable  lui-meme  se  mile  de  nos 
affaires^  so  often  has  the  unexpected  and 
unwished-for  arrived  to  prevent  us  from  meet- 
ing ;  however,  I  hope  for  the  best.  And  now 
to  go  and  wish  happiness  to  the  little  bride 
who,  I  know  for  a  certainty,  is  going  to  be 
miserable  ! 

CCCX 

(Letter  missing) 


CCCXI 

Boulogne,  'jth  August  1868. 
You  ask  whether  our  last  promenade  left  an 
impression  on  my  mind  ?      Let  me  repeat  your 


cccxi      PROSPER  MARIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'         307 

own  words  and  say  that  I  find  it  a  "  tres-doux 
souvenir'' — one  of  those  memories  which  steal 
over  one  as  the  long  summer  twilight  deepens, 
and  the  first  pale  stars  come  shyly  out  into 
heaven's  blue ;  which  makes  one  long  to  be 
quiet  and  alone,  that  no  word  may  disturb  the 
after -glow  of  a  deep  warm  joy  which  has 
passed,  but  which  has  left  a  light  of  happiness 
like  the  lurid  fire  of  red  gold  lighting  an  even- 
ing sky  after  the  sun  that  caused  it  has  sunk 
out  of  sight.  Ah,  love,  how  well  you  have 
loved  me  back  ! 

Every  one  I  ever  knew  or  heard  of  who  has 
indulged  in  the  uncertain  pleasure  of  living 
beyond   his   income   I  now  find   established   in 

this  place.      Lord  Henry  P and  his  pretty 

wife  are  here,  absolutely  bankrupt ;  and  from 
the  number  of  captains  and  colonels  one  meets 
I  should  judge  that  the  better  part  of  the 
English  army  live  in  fear  of  arrest  for  debt. 
The  rock  you  ask  about  is,  as  you  say,  a 
monstrosity,  but  just  what  it  was  intended  for 
I  do  not  know.  I  will  ask  some  of  these 
valiant  officers  who  know  the  place. 

Did  you,  when  passing  through  Boulogne, 
ever  visit  the  Aquarium  ?  It  amuses  me 
extremely,  and  you  who  delight  in  uncanny 
creatures  of  all  kinds  would  positively  revel  in 
some  of  the  distorted  and  demon-like  fish  and 
crabs  which  nearly  give  me  the  nightmare.  I 
have  arranged  to  remain  here  until   the  3d  of 


3o8  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cccxi i r 

next  month,  when  I  must  go  to  London  for  at 
least  a  fortnight  on  business. 


CCCXIl 

London,  4//^  September  1868. 
Frankly,  I  do  not  like  your  story  of  the 
Ours.  It  is  in  its  ideas  as  distorted  and 
unpleasant  as  the  nightmare  crabs  I  told  you 
of  Do  change  the  plot — the  composition  is 
too  good  to  be  expended  upon  such  a  subject ; 
at  least  modify  the  experiences  of  the  Ours^  and 
leave  out  some  of  the  suggestive  phrases.  Oh 
no,  the  idea  is  too  awful ;  how  could  you 
imagine  such  a  plot  ?  I  am  so  afraid  that  you 
will  publish  it  at  once  that  I  stop  to  write  no 
other  word,  and  send  these  hurried  lines  to  beg 
you  to  reconsider  the  story.  Direct  to  me  No. 
—  Clarges  Street,  Piccadilly. 


CCCXIII 

London,  1st  October  1868. 
I  am  still  detained  here,  and  am  very 
impatient  at  the  delay.  Do  tell  me  where  a 
person  can  with  the  greatest  propriety  insult 
another?  Etiquette  forbids  that  it  should  be 
in  the  house  of  the  one  insulted ;  common 
politeness,  not  to  say  decency,  decrees  that  it 


cccxiii    PROSPER  MERIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '        309 

may  not  be  in  the  habitation  of  the  insulter  ; 
and  still  less  is  it  possible  for  the  process  to  be 
accomplished  at  the  dwelling  of  a  mutual  friend. 
What  spot,  then,  is  available,  save  the  open 
street  or  the  high  seas,  both  of  which  would 
present  manifest  difficulties,  the  foremost  of 
them  being  the  slender  chance  of  encountering 
the  person  for  whom  the  insult  is  all  prepared 
and  ready  before  time  has  a  chance  of  lessening 
the  wholesome  effect  intended  to  be  wrought 
by  it! 

Still  another  question — my  mind  is,  you 
see,  in  an  inquiring,  mood  to-night — who 
originated  the  expression  "false  as  hell"? 
Whoever  did  so  had  not,  to  my  thinking, 
a  logical  brain.  Surely  hell  is  more  consistent 
and  true  in  its  promises  than  are  most  things 
in  this  mutable  world  of  ours.  It  pledges 
itself  to  punish,  and  we  are  distinctly  given  to 
understand  that  we  obtain  punishment  at  its 
hands.  It  clearly  states  upon  what  terms  a 
dwelling  within  its  precincts  can  be  obtained, 
and  those  fulfilling  the  conditions  are  apt  to 
find  themselves  denizens  of  its  halls.  It  says 
plainly,  in  the  words  of  the  poet,  "  Leave  hope 
behind  all  ye  who  enter  here,"  and  once  inside 
the  gates,  hope  and  hell's  inmate  are  parted  for 
ever.  It  stipulates  that  evil  shall  take  the  place 
of  good,  that  despair  shall  drive  out  trustful 
confidence,  that  eternal  woe  shall  stand  in  the 
place  of  everlasting  joy, — and  in  which  of  these 


310  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cccxiii 

agreements  does  it  fail  us?  Not  one.  False 
as  hell ! — should  the  saying  not  rather  be  "  true 
and  certain  as  hell,  steadfast  as  Satan"? 

Why  I  ask  you  these  questions  I  cannot  tell, 
unless  it  is  that  in  thinking  of  this  lengthened 
absence  from  you,  such  a  bitter  aching  loneliness 
has  swept  over  my  whole  being  that  I  feel  en- 
gulphed,  choked,  swallowed  up  in  it,  while  all 
the  solid  foot-holding  landmarks  in  life  seem  at 
the  same  time  to  be  swept  away  by  it  It 
appals  me  when  I  remember  how  few  out  of 
the  millions  of  human  beings  who  exist  in  the 
world,  would  care  if  I  were  literally  annihilated 
and  wiped  out  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Would  one  single  one?  would  you,  tried  friend 
as  you  are  ?  Look  how  quickly  the  gaps  are 
filled  up  ;  see  the  short  space  of  time  it  takes 
men  and  women  to  forget.  They  glibly  put 
all  responsibility  of  replacing  the  lost  upon 
Time,  poor  old  Time,  with  his  back  already 
bowed  and  bent,  who  yet  must  bear  all  that 
coming  generations  may  elect  to  put  upon  him. 
In  turn  they  flatter  and  abuse  him,  trust  to 
him  to  heal  all  wounds,  and  effusively  give  him 
the  credit  when  the  scars  grow  fainter  and 
fainter  until  they  are  lost  to  sight ;  or  else 
belabour  him,  and  say  it  is  he  who  with  relent- 
less and  unseemly  haste  demands  that  new 
faces  shall  replace  the  old,  fresh  lives  fill  the 
void  left  by  those  that  are  ended.  Poor,  patient 
old   Time.      But  abused   as   he   is,  how  many 


cccxtii    PROSPER  M&RIM^E'S  'INCONNUE'         311 

lessons  he  can  teach  ;  how  many  rough  corners 
grow  smooth  under  his  care,  what  jagged  edges 
are  polished  down,  and  how  wise  we  grow,  and 
tolerant  with  a  great  weariness  which  is  too 
tired  to  care  very  much  for  anything.  What 
does  it  matter,  we  cry  bitterly,  when  it  must  all 
end  ?  Satan  is  true  and  death  is  certain,  and 
no  man  can  tell  what  comes  after.  Now  be 
cheerful  (if  you  can)  ;  make  plans,  take  keen 
interest  in  the  trifling  petty  things  around  you, 
force  them  to  grow  to  great  matters  of  import- 
ance big  with  possibilities  ;  set  your  whole  mind 
upon  obtaining  some  paltry  thing  which  you 
know  secretly  is  not  worth  a  single  thought ;  be 
ready  to  circumvent  others  who  are  fighting  to 
outwit  you  in  the  great  social  game  ;  bring  all 
your  intelligence,  your  intellect,  if  you  chance 
to  have  any,  to  bear  upon  social  effects  and 
success ;  emulate  and  outdo  the  struggling 
striving  wretches  around  you  who  are  spurring 
on  in  the  mad  race  which  all  hope  to  win.  To 
"  get  on  in  life,"  that  is  what  they  are,  one  and 
all,  trying  to  do  ;  get  on,  no  matter  by  what 
means.  If  rudeness  pays,  be  rude  ;  snub  your 
best  and  oldest  friend  ;  forget  the  kindly  deed 
another  may  have  done  you  long  ago  if  now  he 
stands  in  your  way ;  put  aside  and  crush  under 
foot  relentlessly ;  be  blind  and  deaf  when  people 
from  whom  you  can  obtain  nothing,  and  for 
whom  you  have  no  further  use,  are  within  sight 
and  hearing.    On — on  at  any  cost  to  self-respect, 


312  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cccxtii 

or  conscience,  or  manhood,  or  true  womanhood  ; 
what  are  these  but  mere  high-sounding  phrases 
which  mean  nothing  to  sensible  creatures  whose 
aim  in  Hfe  is  to  "  get  on  ; "  wise  prudent  souls 
who  know  what  they  want,  and  mean  to  obtain 
it  by  fair  means  or  foul !  Doubtless  you  are 
wondering  why  I  should  rave  in  this  manner, 
and  probably  you  have  already  decided  that  I 
am  delirious.  I  begin  my  letter  by  asking  at 
what  place  I  can  best  insult  a  fellow -mortal, 
and  continue  by  a  scathing  denunciation  of 
people  who  after  all  are  only  living  up  to  what 
they  have  chosen  as  their  ideal.  A  recent 
insight  into  the  utter  hoUowness  and  heartless- 
ness  of  London  life  has  suggested  this  train  of 
thought,  not  that  I  did  not  know  it  all  before 
— the  vanity  of  vanities  of  London's  social 
struggle  ;  but  a  friend  came  to  see  me  to-day 
who  gravely  undertook  to  prove  that  it  was 
right,  and  wise,  and  just  as  it  should  .be  ;  and 
the  worst  of  it  all  is  that  he  honestly  believes 
what  he  says,  and  with  zeal  worthy  of  a  better 
cause  religiously  endeavours  to  live  up  to  his 
creed — "  Get  on  at  any  cost."  It  all  seemed 
so  pitifully  small  and  narrow  that  it  depressed 
me,  and  induced  this  sensation  of  overwhelming 
loneliness  which  I  ought  not  to  have  attributed 
solely  to  your  absence.  The  solitude  which 
separation  from  you  brings,  has  never  the  acrid 
tinge  of  bitterness  which  my  dreary  loneliness 
of  to-night   is   weighted    with.       But    London 


cccxiii    PROSPER' M&RIM&E'S  'INCONNUE'         313 

social  life  is  too  intricate  a  subject  to  be  treated 
lightly.  It  is  a  fiercely  hardening  process,  and 
if  the  rule  of  demand  and  supply  can  be 
adapted  to  it  as  it  can  to  most  things,  the 
hardening  is  necessary  in  order  to  withstand 
the  pressure.  The  great  social  machine  grinds 
on  steadily  and  relentlessly,  and  if  the  material 
brought  under  its  sharp  points  and  heavy 
weights  is  soft  and  yielding,  it  is  simply  crushed 
to  shapeless  pulp  and  disappears,  while  the 
hard  resisting  substance,  on  the  contrary,  grows 
bright  and  polished.  In  the  slang  used  by  the 
English  lower  animals,  i.e.  the  domestic  servants, 
you  must  "  stand  up  "  to  London  society  if  you 
intend  to  hold  your  own  against  its  insolent 
aggressiveness.  Belinda  is  the  romantic  name 
of  the  lodging-house  "  slavey  "  who  is  at  present 
the  presiding  genius  of  my  apartment.  Now 
slaveys  ought,  by  every  rule  of  English  life,  to 
restrict  their  remarks  to  "  Yes'm,"  "  No  ma'am," 
and  "  Thank  you,"  this  latter  upon  all  occasions 
and  a  propos  to  nothing  at  all ;  Belinda,  how- 
ever, is  an  original,  and  difficult  to  suppress. 
She  will  talk,  and  you  may  just  as  well  make 
up  your  mind  to  the  fact,  and  take  it  as  you 
would  the  screeching  of  a  steam-engine — stop 
your  ears  and  let  it  blow.  I  close  my  mental 
ears  while  the  girl  tells  me  of  her  grievances 
against  her  mistress,  the  smooth-tongued  land- 
lady who  to  me  is  all  subservient  civility.  This 
morning   my   understanding    caught   a    phrase 


314  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cccxiii 

while  the  girl  was  speaking  which  remained 
with  me — "You  must  just  stand  up  to  her, 
ma'am,  or  she'll  grind  you."  Yes,  Belinda  has 
supplied  me  with  the  words  which  describe  best 
how  London  society  must  be  treated.  I  shall 
certainly  watch  Belinda  carefully  during  the 
remainder  of  my  stay  here,  and  see  how  this 
"  stand  up  to  "  process  works.  But  oh,  how  all 
this  makes  me  long  still  more  for  my  peaceful 
cheery  little  pied  a  terre  in  Paris,  and  my  half 
Bohemian,  wholly  pleasant  life !  Let  others 
struggle  if  they  will,  and  ''  get  on  "  until  there 
is  no  farther  goal  to  reach,  but,  for  myself,  I 
would  choose  a  few  good  tried  friends  and  a 
free  existence. 

Such  a  delightful  story  has  just  been  told 
me  of  an  old  Quaker,  one  of  the  "  Society  of 
Friends,"  who  said  to  his  wife — "All  the  world 
is  queer  except  thee  and  me,  and  thee  is  a 
little  queer." 

What  a  dear  that  old  Quaker  must  have 
been.  You  cannot  say  in  regard  to  this  letter 
what  you  wrote  in  yours  of  2d  September — 
"  Ne  Idchez  pas  taut  vos  lettres^  de  fa^on  a  ne 
mettre  que  trois  mots  a  la  ligite."  If  you  only 
do  not  find  my  epistle  of  to-night  too  long  and 
rambling,  I  shall  be  content.  Write  to  me 
quickly  that  the  baths  at  Montpellier  are  doing 
you  no  end  of  good.     A  vous  de  cceur. 

Mariquita. 


cccxiv    PROSPER  M^RIMAE'S  " INCONNUE'         315 

CCCXIV 


-,  1st  December  1868. 


Mercil  You  are  really  very  amiable  to 
make  the  changes  in  the  story,  and  it  may  be, 
after  all,  that  your  Ours  will  not  be  so  hor- 
rible. I  think  you  were  wise,  however,  not  to 
send  so  dangerous  an  animal  to  roam  at  will 
among  the  brilliant  company  at  Compiegne  ; 
the  empress  might  not  have  been  particularly 
gratified  by  your  attention. 

I  am  here  until  Christmas,  and  quite  a  plea- 
sant party  are  staying  at  the  chdteau.     About 

the  27th  of  December  Madame  de  T and 

I  are  going  by  a  circuitous  route  to  Italy, 
making  Florence  our  final  destination.  I  feel 
sure  that  some  of  your  letters  have  miscarried, 
for  I  refuse  to  believe  that  you  have  not  been 
well  enough  to  write.  Cher  ami,  do  you  some- 
times think  that  I  do  not  write  minutely 
enough  of  your  health,  or  refer  often  enough 
to  what  you  tell  me  of  it  ?  Would  you  know 
the  truth  ?  it  is  that  there  are  some  thoughts  I 
cannot  think,  some  words  which  even  to  myself 
I  dare  not  speak.  I  am  so  grieved  that  the 
baths  at  Montpellier  did  not  help  you  as  much 
this  second  time  as  they  did  the  first,  and  it 
makes  my  heart  ache  when  you  tell  me  of  your 
continued  fight  with  this  terrible  cough  and 
the  fits  of  suffocation.      Do  not  dread  so  that 


3i6  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cccxv 

the  winter  may  prove  a  cold  one  ;  only  enjoy 
the  fine  weather  while  you  have  it,  and  remem- 
ber how  often  it  continues  through  the  whole 
year  at  Cannes.  You  could  not  be  in  a  better 
place,  and  I  hope  much  from  its  climate,  which 
always  suits  you.  Dieu  votes  garde.  Rosini's 
death  was  sad.  I  had  not  heard  of  the  illness 
of  Lamartine  and  Berryer.  I  send  you  not 
only  the  name  of  one  amusing  book,  as  you 
ask  for,  but  a  whole  list,  almost  all  of  which  I 
find  more  than  readable. 


CCCXV 

Florence,  6th  January  1869. 

One  sentence  of  your  letter  makes  me  forget 
all  the  rest — "  Que  faut-il  faire  ?  je  n'en  sais 
rietiy  mais  souvent  fai  grand  desir  que  cela 
finis sey 

O  mo7i  ami,  do  you  know  what  that  means 
to  me  ?  So  often  now  thoughts  come  to  me 
which  I  dare  not  put  in  words,  but  they  haunt 
me  after  reading  that  you  suffer,  that  you  make 
no  progress,  that  you  grow  worse ;  and  now 
you  tell  me  this,  that  you  wish  the  end  might 
come.  Oh,  love,  love,  love,  I  could  not  live 
without  you  !  Do  you  know  what  the  world 
would  be  for  me  with  you  not  here  ?  A  leadf 
sky,  with  stars  and  moon  and  sun  gone  ou 
flowers  without  scent  or  colour,  trees  bare  c 


cccxv     PROSPER  M^RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE'         317 

foliage,  birds  with  no  note  of  song,  all  glad 
things  turned  to  mocking  memories  ;  days  of 
utter  weariness,  with  longing,  aching  arms 
stretched  out  to  empty  space  ;  a  heart  starved 
and  hungry,  with  only  stones  for  food  ;  nights 
when  lying  dreams  would  cheat  me  to  believe 
that  once  again  you  clasped  me  in  a  warm, 
living  embrace,  only  that  when  the  waking 
came  my  sense  of  loss  might  grow  anew  with 
double  bitterness  !  Surely  hell  has  no  torture 
greater  than  a  heart  can  feel  when  its  other 
better,  dearer  self  is  taken,  and  it  is  left  with 
all  the  tired  restlessness  and  weary,  poisoned, 
passionate  pain.  If  we  could  but  go  together, 
you  and  I,  hand  in  hand  through  the  dark 
valley  and  down  into  the  deep,  dark  waters 
which  lead  to  the  great  unknown.  Dear  God, 
was  it  good  to  decree  this  awful,  final  trial  of 
tearing  asunder  lives  grown  to  one,  of  wrench- 
ing nerves  and  fibres  joined  and  twined  together 
with  years  of  daily  loving  sympathy,  only  that 
one  may  go  forth  bruised  and  bleeding  to  a 
new,  uncomprehended  life  all  solitary,  while 
the  other  is  left  to  live  on  the  old  existence, 
with  all  its  charm  crushed  out  and  ended?  It 
is  so  hard,  so  terribly  hard,  to  believe  the  words 
spoken  by  a  voice  never  yet  heard,  as  it  says 
to  the  first,  "  Be  not  afraid,  for  I  am  with  you," 
and  to  the  other,  "  Weep  not,  I  will  comfort 
you."  We  know  so  well  the  voice  we  have 
loved   and   lived  with,  and   feel   so  certain   that 


3 1 8  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cccxv 

it  understands  our  every  want,  that  if  we  might 
only  go  together  we  must  be  happy,  whatever 
strange,  new  thing  be  waiting  for  us,  but  this 
grave,  far-off,  unseen  One  who  promises.  Him 
we  cannot  really  know,  and  we  fear  to  meet 
Him  all  alone.  No,  I  cannot,  will  not,  live 
without  you.  Every  night  will  I  pray  that  if 
there  be  a  God  in  heaven  merciful  and  loving, 
let  Him  take  me  first,  that  I  may  never  know 
the  irremediable  loss  of  losing  you.  I  could 
not  bear  the  torture.  I  should  go  mad  with 
grief,  and  do  some  frantic,  senseless  thing  far 
better  left  undone.  No,  you  must  not  die 
before  me  ;  it  cannot,  shall  not  be  ! 

Wer  besser  liebt  ?  You  asked  this  once,  and 
I  promptly  answered  that  I  loved  best ;  but  as 
I  think  of  that,  another  thought  comes  with  it. 
Shall  I  leave  to  you  the  pain  I  am  afraid  to 
bear  myself?  You  have  told  me  more  than 
once  that  you  could  not  now,  after  so  long, 
live  your  life  without  me  ;  and,  ill  and  suffering 
as  you  are,  I  would  pray  to  leave  you  here 
alone,  because  I  cannot  face  the  coming  years 
should  you  go  first !  Wer  besser  liebt  ?  Oh, 
is  it  not  the  one  who  up  to  the  last  would  tend 
and  cheer,  and  guard  from  extra  pain  of  mind 
or  body,  bearing  her  own  woe  silently,  that  no 
tear  or  sob  may  disturb  the  few  short  hours 
left,  or  distress  the  heart  to  which  she  has  long 
since  given  her  own  ?  Would  this  not  be  more 
loyal  love  and  friendship  than  to  save  herself 


cccxix    PROSPER  MArIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '         319 

from  pain  and  leave  the  loneliness  to  him  she 
loves  ? 

Ah,  love !  I  would  bear  it  all,  and  say  no 
word,  if  by  so  doing  you  might  be  saved  one 
hour  of  weary  solitude. 

CCCXVl 

(Letter  missing) 

CCCXVII 

Paris,  20th  April  1869. 

I  have  returned  here,  as  I  could  not  remain 
so  far  away  with  such  continued  bad  news 
from  you.  If  you  are  not  well  enough  to 
come  to  Paris  I  will  join  you  at  Cannes.  I 
am  very  anxious,  and  long  to  see  you.  DieiL 
voiis  benisse,  Mariquita. 

CCCXVl  II 
(Letter  missing) 

CCCXIX 

Paris, 
Monday^  2,d  May  1869. 

They  told  me  that  they  thought  you  were 
sleeping  when  I  called  this  afternoon,  so  I 
would    not    allow    them    to    disturb    you,    and 


320  A  AT  A  UTHOR  'S  LO  I'E  cccxi  x 

merely  left  the  book.  Are  you  rested  after 
your  journey,  and  better?  I  have  so  many 
plans  and  ideas  for  amusing  you,  and  no  end 
of  funny   stories  to   tell   you.      You  remember 

Mr.  X ,  whom  you  met  in   London  ;  that 

handsome,  clever,  agreeable  man.  Well,  his 
son  came  to  see  me  yesterday,  so  absurdly  like 
his  father,  and  so  disappointingly  unlike.  Do 
you  not  hate  an  inferior  copy  of  a  good  ori- 
ginal, be  it  of  man,  beast,  or  thing  ?  I  do  ;  I 
detest  it,  as  I  mortally  detest  anything  verging 
on  a  sham.  A  mistake  which  this  promising 
youth  made  in  his  French  positively  convulsed 
me;  it  is  too  good  not  to  repeat.  He  has 
come  here  to  remain  some  time,  has  taken  an 
apartment  in  the  Boulevard  Malesherbes,  and 
was  telling  me  of  his  experiences  with  French 
fournisseiirs,  and  the  difficulty  he  had  had  in  en- 
gaging servants.  The  valet  de  pied,  he  thought, 
asked  him  too  high  wages,  but  after  a  good  deal 
of  haggling  he  consented  to  give  hini  so  much 
par  mois,  et  la  blanchisseuse  !  After  telling  me 
the  story,  during  the  telling  of  which  my 
guardian  angel  kindly  kept  my  face  straight 
for  me,  I  having  lost  all  control  over  its  expres- 
sion, cet  imbecile,  with  the  greatest  calmness, 
assured  me  that  the  French  language  did  not 
trouble  him  in  the  least  ;  he  found  it  perfectly 
easy ! 

I  will  come  and  see  you  whenever  you  wish 
me  to. 


cccxxi    PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  321 

cccxx 

Paris, 
Friday  Evenings  1 1  th  JiiJie. 

The  weather  is  so  threatening  at  present  that 
I  much  fear  our  little  expedition  for  to-morrow 
does  not  stand  a  very  good  chance.  Let  me 
know  in  the  morning  how  you  feel,  and  what 
you  would  like  to  do.  With  this  I  send  you 
some  violets,  and  devoutly  trusting  that  you 
did  not  take  cold  at  the  Exposition  yesterday, 
am  yours  lovingly  and  loyally. 


CCCXXI 


26th  June  1869. 


Naturally  I  am  cross  at  being  obliged  to 
leave  you  in  Paris  in  order  to  see  about  an 
unpleasant  business  here  ;  but  as  it  is  one  of 
those  things  which  is  nobody's  fault,  and  is  dis- 
agreeable with  an  abstract,  impersonal  kind  of 
disagreeableness,  there  is  absolutely  nothing  to 
be  done  but  bear  the  affliction  with  as  good  a 
grace  as  possible.  I  think  matters  can  be 
settled  between  the  conflicting  parties,  only  it 
may  take  time  besides,  .  .  .  Do  not  tell  me 
that  you  have  the  same  detestable  weather  in 
Paris  that  we  have  here, — it  would  be  really 
too  cruel.  Is  not  hypocrisy  the  most  dis- 
pleasing quality  allo\yed  for  the  use  of  mortals, 
or  do  I  overrate  its  unpleasantness  ? 
Y 


322  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cccxxiii 

CCCXXII 

,  Zdjuly. 


And  so  to-day,  in  the  year  of  grace  1869, 
you  think  it  a  miracle  that  it  is  possible  for 
people  to  talk  of  love  in  the  woods  when  the 
weather  is  bad !  How  I  laughed,  as  a  few 
mausing  dates  came  to  my  mind.  One,  a 
certain  day  when  after  hours  spent  out  at 
Versailles  in  a  pouring  rain,  I  was  asked  upon 
coming  home  whether  I  had  a  fever.  And 
again,  a  windy  afternoon  at  Saint  Germain  ; 
and  still  another  stormy  morning,  when  we 
found  the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg  a 
paradise  !  Have  you  forgotten  ?  No,  nor  have 
I  ;  and  a  miracle  like  this  will  be  worked  for 
generations  yet  to  come,  as  it  was  worked  for 
us,  and  for  those  long  long  before  us.  Happy 
miracle,  ever  new  and  for  ever  unforgetable ! 

But  it  is,  I  repeat,  too  cruel  that  just  when 
you  most  need  sunshine  this  miserable  weather 
should  last  so  persistently  ;  let  us  hope  that  it 
is  almost  over.  I  am  so  glad  that  you  are 
going  to  Saint  Cloud  ;  when  there  pensez  un 
pen  d  nioi. 

cccxxni 


,  15M  August  1869. 

"  Tout  passe,  tout  casse,  tout  lasse  !"      It   is 
not  a  cheerful  quotation,  but  how  unpleasantly 


nccxxiii    PROSPER  M£RIM£E'S  ' INCONNUE  '       323 

true   it    is  !     You  must   have  met  that  pretty 

little    Blanche    H ,  who  threatened    to  go 

into  a  rapid  decline  if  she  were  not  allowed  to 

marry  Sir  Harry ;  and  the  popular  M.  de 

G ,  who  threatened  a  general  extermination 

of  the  race  if  he  were  not  permitted  to  wed  the 
beauty    of   the    London    season,    Lady   Violet 

.       Well,   just    these   two   particulars   sat 

directly  behind  me  at  the  play  the  last  time  I 
was  in  Paris ;  not,  Men  entendu^  with  their 
corresponding  halves,  for  whom  they  had  been 
ready  to  undergo  so  much  ;  not  at  all,  but  with 
each  other — a  devoted  couple  ;  while  the  hus- 
band of  Blanche  and  the  wife  of  Sir  Harry 
were  God  knows  where.  Are  we  really  a 
remarkable  example,  cher  ami,  in  that  our 
affection  has  so  well  stood  the  test  of  time,  and 
can  it  be  that  it  has  done  so  from  the  reason 
you  so  unhesitatingly  give  .  .  .  ?  It  is  a 
queer  world,  a  very  queer  one.  Should  there 
really  be  no  other  life  after  this,  as  you  would 
have  me  believe,  I  query  much  whether  one 
makes  just  the  best  use  of  it,  or  gets  all  the 
most  out  of  it.  I  am  delighted  that  your  visit 
to  Saint  Cloud  has  done  you  so  much  good  ; 
this  eucalyptus  remedy  may  be  the  very  thing, 
— have  faith  in  it,  I  beseech  you,  and  never 
mind  the  man  who  fell  from  the  fifth  story  and 
grew  philosophical  while  descending. 

It  is  a  bad  day  for  me  to  give  you  my  honest 
opinion    about  the   Ours,  as  the  beginning   of 


324  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cccxx i ii 

my  letter  may  suggest  to  you,  and  you  will  not 
be  pleased  at  it.  Why  try  and  circulate  a 
thing  you  know  to  be  risqu^  merely  because 
you  find  the  riskiness  so  cleverly  veiled  that  an 
ordinary  reader  would  fail  to  discover  it  ?  You 
who  with  your  pen  might  so  easily  make  men 
better,  not  worse — instruct  them  as  well  as 
amuse.  Of  course  you  are  disgusted  with  this 
idea,  and  will  call  it  narrow-minded,  not 
moving  with  the  times,  etc.  etc.  Well,  do 
not  give  it  a  second  thought ;  to-morrow,  or, 
no,  the  next  time  I  see  you,  I  may  think 
differently  ;  it  would  not  be  the  first  time  that 
a  few  words  from  you  had  changed  my  ideas, 
would  it? 

The  last  sentence  of  your  letter  reproaches 
me  as  I  re-read  it.  You  ask  me  to  write  you 
semething  gay,  because  you  are  very  melan- 
choly, and  instead  I  plainly  show  you  that  blue 
devils  and  I  are  tres-li^e  to-day,  and  that  any- 
thing further  removed  from  "  gay  "  than  is  the 
state  of  my  personality  it  would  be  hard  to 
imagine.  If  I  cannot  cheer  I  had  better  not 
depress  you,  which  I  feel  that  I  am  doing  with 
every  line  I  write  ;  so  I  will  say  adieu  before  I 
do  further  harm. 


CCCXXIV 

(Letter  missing) 


cccxxv   PROSPER  M&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '         325 

cccxxv 

Paris,  ^d  December  1869. 
Madame  Dosne  as  a  mother-in-law  certainly 
proved  the  exception  to  the  general  rule,  and 
like  so  many  exceptions  to  rules,  grammatically 
speaking,  was  a  far  more  valuable  thing  than 
the  rule  itself.  Poor  M.  Thiers  must  indeed  be 
quite  lost  without  her.  To  me  it  is  a  thing  not 
possible  to  understand  that  the  wife  of  a  man 
should  not  share  in  his  ambitions  and  plans  ; 
should  not  help  them  in  every  way,  make  her- 
self perfectly  au  fait  of  the  situation  whatever 
it  may  be,  and  aid  her  husband  in  every  known 
manner  permissible  ;  I  had  almost  added  "  or 
not  permissible."  It  is  my  belief  that  a  woman 
can  do  so  much,  accomplish  such  marvels,  in 
assuring  the  success  of  a  man  if  she  will  but 
devote  her  mind  to  doing  so — use  her  tact,  her 
common  sense,  every  fascination  she  may  possess, 
to  win  friends  and  influential  support  for  her 
husband  in  whatever  line  of  life  he  may  happen 
to  find  himself  It  is  a  pet  theory  of  mine, — 
I  believe  in  it  thoroughly.  I  know  it  is  pos- 
sible for  a  woman  to  do  all  this,  and  surely 
there  could  be  no  better  way  for  her  to  employ 
any  talents  which  may  have  been  bestowed 
upon  her.  And  yet  look  how  the  generality  of 
men's  wives  hamper  rather  than  help  them. 
Look  at  Madame  Thiers  herself  To  me  it  is 
inexplicable ;    I  gaze   at  women    in   a   sort   of 


326  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cccxxvi 

stupefaction,  they  seem  so  blind  to  their  oppor- 
tunities. Thank  God  !  I  can  honestly  lay  the 
flattering  unction  to  my  soul  that  while  I  had 
a  husband  I  was  true  to  him  in  both  letter  and 
spirit,  and  did  for  him  in  every  sense  "  the  best 
that  in  me  lay."  It  is  not  a  bad  memory  to 
have  stored  in  a  quiet  corner  of  my  mind,  that 
when  the  end  came  he  still  called  me  the  best 
friend  that  he  had  ever  had.  And  I  told  you 
once  that  I  thought  I  could  be  a  good  friend  ; 
have  I  proved  my  words  ? 

Tell  me  that  you  are  better,  and  that  you 
suffer  less.  Would  that  I  could  give  you  my 
health  and  strength,  and  suffer  in  your  place. 

There  is  an  uneasiness  in  the  political  air 
which  grows  steadily,  at  least  so  it  appears  to 
me.  A  half-defined  restlessness,  an  uncertainty, 
that  is  almost  impossible  to  seize  in  words,  but 
which  one  feels  in  every  vein.  O  this  France, 
*'  unstable  as  water " !  Will  there  neyer  be  a 
permanent  quiet  for  her — a  more  solid  basis  ? 
I  doubt  it. 


CCCXXVI 

Paris,  \oth  January  1870. 

Your   letter   has    almost    broken    my    heart. 

La  mort !  dear  God,  I  cannot  say  that  name 

and  yours  together !      I  am  blinded  as  I  merely 

write  the  letters  which  have  no  meaning  for  me, 


cccxxvi    PROSPER  Mj&RIM&E'S  ' INCONNUE  '       327 

blinded  with  salt  smarting  tears  which  burn  my 
brain  before  they  fill  my  eyes,  and  scorch  and 
sear  my  heart ;  your  heart  it  is,  and  with  you 
gone  how  can  it  beat  again  or  ever  throb,  save 
to  a  dull  dead  agony  which  means  a  ghastly 
living  death !  "  Une  mort  leiite  et  tres  doulou- 
rezise"  you  say,  and  I  read  the  words  but 
cannot  grasp  the  sense.  Not  this  for  you  ! 
Oh  no,  it  cannot,  cannot  be !  Let  it  be  mine 
if  you  will  ;  I  will  bear  it  all  and  more,  if  by  so 
doing  I  can  save  you  from  one  single  pang ; 
but  not  this  for  you  !  With  your  brilliant  intel- 
lect, your  keen  fancy,  your  delicate  appreciation, 
your  love  of  life  !  It  is  again  this  sudden  cold 
which  makes  you  feel  worse,  and  once  passed, 
and  with  warmth  and  sunshine  back  again,  you 
will  be  better.  Tell  me  it  is  nothing  more 
than  this,  take  back  those  dreadful  words  and 
think  no  more  of  them  ;  I  cannot  give  you  up  ! 
You  wish  me  une  bonne  ann^e — could  any 
year  be  good  or  any  gift  it  brought  me  be 
worth  the  having  if  only  ill  were  the  portion  it 
gave  to  you  ?  O  heart,  dear  heart  of  mine, 
take  away  the  mortal  sadness  your  words  bring 
me  ;  tell  me  that  this  fear  of  yours  has  no 
foundation  in  reality,  that  it  is  a  mere  fancy 
which  the  chill  of  the  east  wind  and  the  icy 
breath  of  the  frost  have  cruelly  breathed  over 
you,  and  which  the  first  glad  burst  of  sunshine 
will  melt  and  thaw  away,  when  you  will  be 
yourself  again,  brilliant  and  well  and  loving  as 


328  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  ccoxx v 1 1 

of   old.      It   must    be   so ;    no   other   thing   is 
possible. 


CCCXXVII 

Paris,  \^th  February  1870. 
I  try  to  think  that  much  wisdom  lies  con- 
cealed in  the  old  saying,  "No  news  is  good 
news,"  and  to  fancy  you  almost  strong  again, 
and  not  sad  and  suffering.  The  ^meute^  with 
so  pitiful  a  hero  as  Victor  Noir,  must  have 
confirmed  your  opinion  of  the  general  degener- 
acy of  the  times.  The  word  revolution  is  one 
not  unmentioned  now,  and  the  under-current  of 
restlessness  of  which  I  spoke  to  you  some  time 
ago  seems  to  pervade  all  classes,  taking  various 
forms  of  expression.  At  the  Tuileries,  every- 
thing is  gay  and  insouciant^  outwardly  at  least ; 
but  there  are  those  who  pretend  that  the  gaiety 
is  assumed,  and  the  carelessness  more  of  a  mask 
than  a  reality.  The  world  and  men  seem  more 
mad  than  ever,  and  seem  not  to  know  what 
thing  they  really  want.  Some  speak  of  a 
plebiscite.  I  have  been  reading  Motley's  Dutch 
Republic^  renewing  my  contempt  for  the  Duke 
of  Alva  and  my  pity  for  Count  Egmont  and 
Count  Horn.  Their  tragic  death  was  the  first 
thing  I  thought  of  when  I  stood  in  the  great 
square  at  Brussels,  whose  architectural  effects 
suggest,  as  Motley  says,  ''  in  some  degree  the 
meretricious    union    between    Oriental    and    a 


cccxxix    PROSPER  MARIM^E'S  ' INCONNUE  '       329 

corrupt  Grecian  art,  accomplished  in  the  medise- 
val  midnight ;  "  with  the  splendid  H6tel  de  Ville 
and  its  daring  spire,  the  "  graceful  but  incoher- 
ent "  faqade  of  the  Brood-huis^  and  the  lesser 
palaces  and  buildings  near. 

You  say  that  you  are  writing  for  yourself, 
and  perhaps  for  me,  a  little  history  where  love 
plays  the  principal  part.  Would  it  be  possible 
for  you  to  write  such  a  tale  for  yourself  alone, 
leaving  me  out  ?  Ah  no,  not  if  your  fiction  is 
founded  upon  truth.  Two  lives  entwined  with 
mutual  hopes  and  joys,  sorrows  shared  together, 
pleasures  doubled  by  being  divided,  love  glori- 
fied and  intensified  by  reflection  from  heart  to 
heart,  faith  and  loyalty  made  living  truths  from 
a  great  mutual  trust — is  not  this  the  motif  of 
your  history,  and  could  it  treat  of  only  one 
alone  ? 

CCCXXVIII 

(Letter  missing) 


CCCXXIX 

Paris,  20M  May  1870. 

I  have,  I  think,  found  just  the  apartment  you 
wish  for,  not  far  from  me,  ati  premier^  no  entresol^ 
and  with  a  moderate  amount  of  steps.  Shall  I 
have  your  books,  etc.,  moved  for  you  before 
you  come,  and  all  things,  so  far  as  possible,  in 


330  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cccxxx 

readiness  for  you  ?  I  had  promised  to  spend 
the   entire   summer   with    my   sister-in-law  at 

P ^  but   have   written    to   her   that    I    will 

instead  join  her  at  once,  as  I  must  get  back  to 
Paris  about  the  middle  of  June  ;  thus  I  shall 
be  here  when  you  return.  Later,  if  you  are 
better,  I  can  rejoin  her  and  remain  with  her 
during  the  autumn.  Let  me  know  of  any 
changes  you  may  wish  made  in  regard  to  the 
apartment,  and  I  will  do  my  best  to  have 
everything  comfortable  for  you. 


CCCXXX 


P ,  \  St  July  1870. 

Oh,  to  be  kept  here  day  after  day  when  all 
my  thoughts  are  with  you,  and  I  long  with 
every  fibre  of  my  being  to  follow  them  !  It  is 
very,  very  hard,  yet  I  cannot  leave  when  my 
poor  brother  depends  so  entirely  upon  me  in 
his  trouble.  To  lose  two  children  within  a 
fortnight,  and  to  have  your  wife  at  death's  door, 
is  too  great  a  trial  for  a  man  to  be  left  to 
bear  alone.  I  must  remain  with  my  brother 
for  the  present ;  it  would  be  heartless  to  desert 
him,  but  nothing  less  than  this  would  detain 
me  an  hour  longer  from  your  side. 

You  must  be  glad  to  be  in  Paris  at  this 
moment  of  excitement,  with  the  keen  interest 
which  you  take  in  the  political  situation.      Do 


cccxxxi    PROSPER  MERIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE'        331 

you  think  it  possible  that  war  with  Prussia  can 
be  avoided  ?  I  tremble  at  the  thought  of  it, 
and  at  the  remembrance  of  the  military  man- 
oeuvres which  I  witnessed  in  Germany.  Can 
French  soldiery  stand  an  attack  from  such 
machines  of  war  as  all  Prussians  wearing 
uniforms  are  ?  It  is  a  terrible  question  when 
one  thinks  what  it  really  means,  and  what  the 
result  must  be  if  the  answer  is  unfavourable. 


CCCXXXI 


P ,  i^th  July  1870. 

Cher  ami,  do  not  dwell  so  much  upon  the 
coming  cold  which  you  always  seem  to  dread  ; 
there  cannot  be  two  successive  winters  as  severe 
as  the  last  one,  and  once  at  Cannes  you  will 
certainly  be  better. 

My  poor  sister-in-law  is  still  dangerously  ill, 
and  her  husband  is  wellnigh  distracted  with  the 
loss  of  his  children,  to  whom  he  was  devoted. 
The  world  looks  very  bleak  and  drear  to  me 
to-day  in  spite  of  summer  sunshine,  and  my 
courage  begins  to  fail  me.  I  am  not  by  nature 
superstitious,  yet,  when  for  the  first  time  I 
wrote  1870,  the  figures  seemed  to  enclose 
some  sinister  meaning,  some  warning  of  woe 
which  made  me  shudder  even  as  I  smiled  at 
the  foolish  silliness  of  the  fancy.  Perhaps  this 
atmosphere   of  danger  in   the   political    world, 


332  AN  A UTHOR 'S  LOVE  cccxxxi i 

added  to  the  depressing  effect  of  illness  all 
about  me,  is  the  cause  of  this  odd  sense  of 
impending  sorrow.  I  am  sorry  that  you  think 
the  war  with  Prussia  cannot  be  prevented ; 
alas,  will  France  never  be  content  to  let  well 
alone ! 

The  assurance  of  the  physicians  that  you 
are  better  is  a  great  comfort  to  me  ;  they  must 
know,  and  even  if  you  yourself  cannot  see  the 
change  there  must  still  be  one  and  on  the 
favourable  side.  Thank  God  for  this  encour- 
aging news  ;  it  removes  part  at  least  of  the 
heavy  weight  on  my  heart,  and  I  begin  to 
dream  of  happy  days  still  in  store  for  us,  long 
walks,  and  heart-communing  as  in  the  earlier 
times  when  love  came  smiling  with  so  many 
promises.  To-day  it  is  good  to  know  that  with 
the  love  still  ours,  there  is  also  rich  fruition  of 
the  promises  ;  deep  fulness  of  perfected  love 
is  as  much  dearer  than  its  dawning  dreams  as 
the  flower  in  perfect  beauty  is  lovelier  than  the 
opening  bud,  or  as  the  hope  fulfilled  is  better 
than  the  first  faint  half- formed  wish.  Tried, 
true,  and  perfect  friend,  good-night. 


CCCXXXII 


19//^  August  1870. 


There  is  but  little   change  in  my  sister-in- 
law,  whose  health  still  causes  us  the  very  gravest 


cccxxxii     PROSPER  MARIMAE'S  ' INCONNUE  '     333 

anxiety.  The  war  news  is  the  great  topic  of 
interest  here,  as  I  presume  it  must  be  throughout 
France.  It  is  well  for  the  country  to  be  hopeful, 
but  it  strikes  me  that  there  is  an  over-confidence 
in  the  tone  taken.  I  never  believe  in  under- 
rating an  enemy,  and  that  I  think  is  precisely 
the  danger  now  to  be  feared.  It  seems  terrible 
that  at  this  late  day  in  the  civilisation  of  the 
world  so  much  bloodshed  is  necessary  among 
such  nations  as  Germany  and  France ;  the  fact 
appears  to  be  an  ironical  comment  upon  modern 
progress  and  nineteenth  century  Christianity. 

The  longing  to  be  with  you  grows  on  me  ; 
I  feel  each  day  a  stronger  wish  to  be  near  you, 
to  see  you,  and  to  hear  your  voice,  to  feel  your 
hand  in  mine  and  to  look  into  your  eyes  as 
you  tell  me  it  is  good  to  meet  again.  Only  a 
little  time  now  and  all  this  will  be.  A  change 
must  soon  come  in  my  poor  brother's  wife  ;  if 
for  the  better,  I  shall  leave  at  once  and  come 
to  you  ;  if  an  end  comes  to  the  poor  thing's 
sufferings,  my  brother  will  at  once  join  his 
regiment,  and  then  equally  will  I  come  to  you 
if  you  wish  me  to  do  so.  Je  vous  embrasse  de 
cceiir,  cher  ami,  trusting  that  this  may  find  you 
stronger  and  better,  no  blue  devils,  no  melan- 
choly, no  bodily  pain.  I  linger  before  writing 
the  word  adieu  ;  we  have  said  it  too  often,  dear 
friend,  let  us  erase  it  from  our  dictionary,  and 
until  we  choose  another  to  take  its  place  say 
only  ate  revoir. 


334  AN  AUTHOR'S  LOVE  cccxxxiii 


CCCXXXIII 


-,  \6th  September  1870. 


Do  you  recollect  my  once  telling  you  that  if 
you  should  join  the  Immortals  (in  verity  and 
truth)  the  light  of  life  would  cease  to  shine  for 
me?  Why,  I  wonder,  does  the  remembrance 
of  that  saying  obtrude  itself  so  persistently 
upon  my  thoughts  to-day?  Your  last  letter 
was  so  much  more  like  your  old  self,  and  in  it 
you  tell  me  that  for  some  days  past  you  have 
felt  better,  and  you  write  with  so  much  interest 
of  the  exciting  events  going  on  around  us.  If 
only  our  letters  did  not  take  so  long  in  going 
and  coming !  It  is  hard  to  wait  patiently  for 
news  of  you,  but  I  feel  sure  that  you  are  really 
improving,  and  that  we  shall  meet  again  shortly. 
I  will  follow  your  advice  and  remain  for  the 
present  at  this  place,  but  if  I  thought  you  were 
not  so  well,  nothing  could  keep  me  from  you. 
It  would  be  cruel  of  you  not  to  tell  me  should 
this  be  the  case.  Would  it  not  be  better  for 
you  to  go  to  Cannes  even  if  the  journey  is  a 
long  one  ?  Do  think  of  it  seriously.  I  will 
join  you  there  if  you  like,  and  in  fancy  we  will 
live  the  old  days  over  again,  the  happy  old 
days  of  storm  and  sunshine,  quarrels  and  loving 
reconciliations.  Let  me  hear  soon,  and  remem- 
ber that  to-day  as  in  long  days  past  I  am 
always  MariQUITA. 


PROSPER  MARIMEE'S  ' INCONNUE  '  335 

Even  as  she  wrote  these  words,  the  beautiful 
Inconnue^  her  other  self  to  whom  she  spoke  was 
fast  nearing  the  dusky  horizon,  where  eternal 
night  was  drawing  on  apace.  The  eyes  she 
had  kissed  so  often  were  soon  to  feel  that  last 
soft  kiss,  unlike  all  others,  which  seals  from  tears 
and  soothes  to  everlasting  dreamless  sleep.  He 
would  read  her  words,  perchance  press  the  fast 
paling  lips  to  the  characters  her  hand  had  traced, 
and  then  would  pen  once  more  an  answer, 
but  only  once.  It  is  no  good-bye,  this  last 
response  of  his,  only  a  few  words  saying  that  he 
is  ill,  but  mentioning  at  the  same  time  a  slight 
improvement.  He  tells  her  that  he  will  write 
to  her  soon  again,  and  adds  that  she  must  send 
to  his  house  at  Paris  for  some  books  which  he 
ought  to  have  sent  her  before  his  departure, 
but  there  is  not  much  in  the  short  letter,  and 
none  of  his  usual  wit  or  sparkle.  He  writes  as 
though  tired,  very  tired.  The  last  words  are, 
"  Adieu,  je  vous  embrasse" 

A  footnote  to  the  Letters  states  that  two 
hours  later  Prosper  Merimee  died  ;  thus  almost 
his  last  thought,  perhaps  his  very  last,  was  for 
his  love,  his  faithful  friend,  U Incoimue. 


EPILOGUE 


Epilogue 

By  the  tideless  sea  at  Cannes  on  a  summer 
day  I  had  fallen  asleep,  and  the  plashing  of 
the  waves  upon  the  shore  had  doubtless  made 
me  dream.  When  I  awoke  the  yellow  paper- 
covered  volumes  of  Prosper  Merimee's  Lettres 
d  une  Inconmie  lay  beside  me  ;  I  had  been 
reading  the  book  before  I  fell  asleep,  but  the 
answers — had  they  ever  been  written,  or  had  I 
only  dreamed  ? 

THE  AUTHOR, 


^^ 


Printed  by  R.  &  R.  Clark,  Edinburgh. 


.■^ 


A 


14  DAY  USE 

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